ons of men are facing each other in a death grip. This
is so, first, because a great wall of silence has been built between
Paris and the front, and, second, because the spirit of France is too
alive, too resilient, occupied with too many interests, to allow any one
thing, even war, to obsess it. The people of France have accepted the
war as they accept the rigors of winter. They may not like the sleet and
snow of winter, but they are not going to let the winter beat them. In
consequence, the shop windows are again dressed in their best, the
kiosks announce comedies, _revues_, operas; in the gardens of the
Luxembourg the beds are brilliant with autumn flowers, and the old
gentlemen have resumed their games of croquet, the Champs-Elysees swarms
with baby-carriages, and at the aperitif hour on the sidewalks there are
no empty chairs. At many of the restaurants it is impossible to obtain a
table.

It is not the Paris of the days before the war. It is not "gay Paris."
But it is a Paris going about her "business as usual." This spirit of
the people awakens only the most sincere admiration. It shows great
calmness, great courage, and a confidence that, for the enemy of France,
must be disquieting. Work for the wounded and for the families of those
killed in action and who have been left without support continues. Only
now, after a year of bitter experience, it is no longer hysterical. It
has been systematized, made more efficient. It is no longer the work of
amateurs, but of those who by daily practise have become experts.

In Paris the signs of war are not nearly as much in evidence as the
activities of peace. There are many soldiers; but, in Paris, you always
saw soldiers. The only difference is that now they wear bandages, or
advance on crutches. And, as opposed to these evidences of the great
conflict going on only forty miles distant, are the flower markets
around the Madeleine, the crowds of women in front of the jewels, furs,
and manteaux in the Rue de la Paix.

It is not that France is indifferent to the war. But that she has faith
in her armies, in her generals. She can afford to wait. She drove the
enemy from Paris; she is teaching French in Alsace; in time, when
Joffre is ready, she will drive the enemy across her borders. In her
faith in Joffre, she opens her shops, markets, schools, theatres. It is
not callousness she shows, but that courage and confidence that are the
forerunners of success.

But the year of