ewhat gracelessly called a work of supererogation.

I remained in France so long because I was never so vitally interested
in my life. I could not tear myself away, although I found it
impossible to put my material into shape there. Not only was I on the
go all day long, seeing this and that oeuvre, having personal
interviews with heads of important organizations, taken about by the
kind and interested friends my own interest made for me, but when
night came I was too tired to do more than enter all the information I
had accumulated during the day in a notebook, and then go to bed. I
have seldom taken notes, but I was determined that whatever else my
book might be it should at least be accurate, and I also collected all
the literature (leaflets, pamphlets, etc.) of the various oeuvres (as
all these war relief organizations are called) and packed them into
carefully superscribed large brown envelopes with a meticulousness
that is, alas, quite foreign to my native disposition.

When, by the way, I opened my trunk to pack it and saw those dozen or
more large square brown envelopes I was appalled. They looked so
important, so sinister, they seemed to mutter of State secrets, war
maps, spy data. I knew that trunks were often searched at Bordeaux,
and I knew that if mine were those envelopes never would leave France.
I should be fortunate to sail away myself.

But I must have my notes. To remember all that I had from day to day
gathered was an impossibility. I have too good a memory not to
distrust it when it comes to a mass of rapidly accumulated
information; combined with imagination and enthusiasm it is sure to
play tricks.

But I had an inspiration. The Ministry of War had been exceedingly
kind to me. Convinced that I was a "Friend of France," they had
permitted me to go three times into the War Zone, the last time
sending me in a military automobile and providing an escort. I had
been over to the War Office very often and had made friends of several
of the politest men on earth.

I went out and bought the largest envelope to be found in Paris. Into
this I packed all those other big brown envelopes and drove over to
the Ministere de la Guerre. I explained my predicament. Would they
seal it with the formidable seal of the War Office and write
_Propagande_ across it? Of course if they wished I would leave my
garnerings for a systematic search. They merely laughed at this
unusual evidence on my part of humble patience