o come and look at
the remains even of the aeroplane, and said sadly, "All we men of the
air are brothers." They gave the dead Germans a military funeral, and
then sailed over the enemy's lines to drop a note to say that all
honour had been done to the brave dead.

[Page Heading: BULGARIA]

I met Monsieur Jecquier, who was full of the political situation--said
Bulgaria would have joined us any day if we had promised to give her
Bukowina; and blamed Bark, the Russian Finance Minister, for the terms
of England's loan (the loan is for thirty millions, and repayment is
promised in a year, which is manifestly impossible, and the situation
may be strained). He said also that Motono, the Japanese Ambassador, is
far the finest politician here; and he told me that while Russia ought
to have been protecting the road to Constantinople she was quarrelling
about what its new name was to be, and had decided to call it
"Czareska." Now, I suppose, the Germans are already there. Lloyds has
been giving L100 at a premium of L5 that King Ferdinand won't be on his
throne next June. The premium has gone to L10, which is good news. If
Ferdie is assassinated the world will be rid of an evil fellow who has
played a mean and degraded part in this war.

We dined at the British Embassy last night. I was taken in to dinner by
Mr. George Lloyd, who was full of interesting news. I had a nice chat
with Lady Georgina.

_20 November._--It has been rather a "hang-on" ever since I wrote last,
nothing settled and nothing to do. No one ever seems at their best in
Petrograd. It is a cross place and a common place. I never understood
Tolstoi till I came here. On all sides one sees the same insane love of
money and love of food.

A restaurant here disgusts me as nothing else ever did. From a menu a
foot long no one seems able to choose a meal, but something fresh must
be ordered. The prices are quite silly, and, oddly enough, people seem
to revel in them. They still eat caviare at ten shillings a head; the
larger the bill the better they are pleased.

Joseph, the Napoleon of the restaurant, keeps an eye on everyone. He is
yellow, and pigeon-breasted, but his voice is like grease, and he speaks
caressingly of food, pencils entries in his pocket-book, and stimulates
jaded appetites by signalling the "voiture aux hors d'oeuvres" to
approach. The rooms are far too hot for anyone to feel hungry, the band
plays, and the leader of it grins all the time, and ca