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 friends who have gone out from your dinner table to-night, that the farewell was final. But two days later in a Red Cross uniform she was on her way to her place by the bedside of the war wounded. There has been no more entertaining since, and one cannot say when Eleanor Warrender shall ever again see English roses in bloom.

The Viscountess Elizabeth D'Azy had been with her young son passing a summer holiday at a watering-place in France.

She had just sent the boy back to boarding-school and herself had returned to her apartment in Paris overlooking the Esplanade des Invalides. At the moment she had no more intention of becoming a war heroine than of becoming a haloed plaster saint set in a niche in the Madeleine. Yet before she had ordered her trunks to be unpacked, the nation's call for Red Cross women had reached her.

"It was so sudden," she has told me, "and I was so dazed, I couldn't even remember where I had put my Red Cross insignia. At last my maid found it in my jewel-case beneath my diamond necklace. I hadn't even seen it since I had received it at the end of my Red Cross first-aid course of lectures." The maid packed a suitcase of most necessary clothing. Carrying this suitcase, the Viscountess Elizabeth Benoit D'Azy, daughter of the Marquis de Vogue of the old French aristocracy, in August, 1914, walked with high head and firm tread out of a life of luxury