MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR

I


The third week in July found a very merry gathering at the Chateau de
Villiers. (Villiers is our summer home situated near Marne River, sixty
miles or an hour by train to Paris.)

Nothing, I think, could have been farther from thoughts than the idea of
war. Our May Wilson Preston, the artist; Mrs. Chase, the editor of a
well-known woman's magazine; Hugues Delorme, the French artist; and
numerous other guests, discussed the theatre and the "Caillaux case"
from every conceivable point of view, and their conversations were only
interrupted by serious attempts to prove their national superiority at
bridge, and long delightful walks in the park.

As I look back now over those cheerful times, I can distinctly remember
one bright sunny morning, when after a half-hour's climbing we reached
the highest spot on our property. Very warm and a trifle out of breath
we sought shelter beneath a big purple beech, and I can still hear H.
explaining to Mrs. Chase:

"Below you on the right runs the Marne, and over there, beyond those
hills, do you see that long straight line of trees?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's the road that lead's from Paris to Metz!"

At that moment I'm confident he hadn't the slightest _arriere pensee_.

On Monday, the 27th, Mrs. Preston, having decided to take her leave, I
determined to accompany her to Paris. Several members of the house
party joined us, leaving H. and a half-dozen friends at Villiers. We
took an early morning train, and wrapped in our newspapers we were
rolling peacefully towards the capital when someone called out, "For
Heaven's sake, look at those funny soldiers!"