“No,” he says, “personal reasons like that don’t interest the British Government. Neither am I able to understand a journalistic mission which should take a woman travelling in these days of war.” He looks at me. “The New Position of Women! It is not of sufficient interest to the British Government that I should let you go,” he says with finality. “I know, Lieutenant,” I agree. “But surely you are interested in the Allies’ war propaganda for the United States?” The light from the window shines full on his face and I can see a faint relaxation about the lines of his mouth. “Now I wish to go to England so that I may tell the story of the British women’s war work. The readers of _Pictorial Review_ are four million women who vote.” The lieutenant stirs visibly. His sword rattles against the rounds of his chair. Well, my request hangs in the balance like this for a week. At length one day he says, “I’m thinking about letting you go. I shall have to consult with my superior officer. I don’t at all know that he will consent.” There is the day that I have almost given up hope. I am waiting again before the lieutenant’s desk. He has gone for a last consultation with the superior officer. Will he never come back? I stare at his empty chair. The clock on the mantel ticks and ticks. The fire in the grate snaps and snaps. Other people at the next desk who get easier visés than mine, come and go—a Red Cross nurse, two French sisters of charity, a little French boy returning to school. I have counted the pens in the lieutenant’s glass tray. I know every blot on his desk-pad. The clock has ticked thirty-five minutes of suspense for me before the little French soldier in red trousers opens the door and the lieutenant is here. “Well,” he says, “we have decided. You are to be permitted to go, but on one condition.” And he visés my passport, “No return to France during the period of the war.” It has taken nearly two weeks to win my case. Two days later at 6 A. M., when the gardens of the Tuileries are outlined dimly against the faint rays of dawn, my taxicab is reeling through the streets of Paris to the Gare St. Lazare. It is noon before the train reaches Havre. The Red Cross nurse, the London newspaper correspondent and the Belgian air-man all file out of our compartment and the Irish major from Salonica is last. He turns to me with a frank Irish smile: “Your bag can just as well go along with my military luggage. And they’ll never even open it.”