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 clasp hands across the sea in the Anglo-American compact to win this war. Gilbert Parker is in tune with the American temperament. He doesn't wear a monocle. And he says to a woman "Now, what can I do for you?" in just the tone of voice that an American man would use when everything is going to be all right. I remember the red room just before he said it. Everything hung in the balance for me at this moment: "I have confidence in Mr. Vance, your editor. I know him," reflects the man who is deciding. "But—are you in 'Who's Who'?" Just for the lack of a line in a book, a government's good favour might have been lost! But he reached for the copy above his desk. "Any more credentials?" he asks. I cast desperately about in my mind—and drop a Phi Beta key in his hand. "I won't take that up on you," he says with a smile. And my cause is won.

Long important envelopes lettered across the top "On His Majesty's Service" begin to arrive in my mail. All the government offices will be "at home" and helpful—when a personal interview has further convinced each that I am clearly not at all a German person nor the dangerous species of the suffragist. Where are the slippers that will match this gown? And which are the beads that will be best? Mine is a hazardous undertaking, you see, that requires all of the art at the command of a woman: I must so state the mission on which I have come that my woman