The good safe earth is firm beneath our feet before the lace importer speaks. Then, looking out on the harbor, he says: “On my last business trip over a few months since, my steamship came in here safely. But the boat ahead and the next behind each struck a mine.” So the chances of life are like that, sometimes as close as one in three. But while you take them as they come, there are lesser difficulties that it’s a great relief to have some one to do something about. At this very moment I am devoutly glad for the lace importer near at hand. He is carrying my bag and holding his umbrella over me in the rain. For, you see, he is an American man. The more I have travelled, the more certain I have become that it’s a mistake to be a woman anywhere in the world there aren’t American men around. In far foreign lands I have found myself instinctively looking round the landscape for their first aid. The others, I am sure, mean well. But they aren’t like ours. An Englishman gave me his card last night at dinner: “Now if I can do anything for you in London,” he said, and so forth. It was the American man now holding his umbrella over me in the rain, who came yesterday to my steamer chair: “It’s going to be dark to-morrow night in London,” he said, “and the taxicabs are scarce. You must let me see that you reach your hotel in safety.” And I felt as sure a reliance in him as if we’d made mud pies together or he’d carried my books to school. You see, you count on an American man like that. But the cold line of steel! That you have to do alone, even as you go each soul singly to the judgment gate of heaven. I grip my passport hard. It has been removed from its usual place of secure safety. Chamois bags are the eternal bother of being a woman abroad in war-time. Men have pockets, easy ones to get at informally. I have among my “most important credentials”—they are in separate packages carefully labelled like that—a special “diplomatic letter” commending me officially by the Secretary of State to the protection of all United States embassies and consulates. When they handed it to me in Washington, I remember they told me significantly: “We have just picked out of prison over there, two American correspondents whose lives we were able to save by the narrowest chance. We don’t want any international complications. Now, do be careful.” I’m going to be. The Tower of London and some modern Bastille on the banks of the Seine and divers other dark damp places of detention over here are at this minute clearly outlining themselves as moving pictures before my mind. I earnestly don’t want to be in any of them.