And in this third journey of mine, I have seen much more than Northern France.

In a motor drive of some hundreds of miles, from Metz to Strasburg, through Nancy, Toul, St.
Mihiel, Verdun, Chalons, over the ghastly battle-fields of Champagne, through Rheims, Chateau-Thierry, Vaux, to Paris, I have always had the same spectacle under my eyes, the same passion in my heart.

If one tried to catch and summarise the sort of suppressed debate that was going on round one, a few weeks ago, between Allied opinion that was trying to reassure France, and the bitter feeling of France herself, it seemed to fall into something like the following dialogue: [2] These pages were written in the first week of February.
"All is well.

The Peace Conference is sitting in Paris." "Yes--_but what about France_ ?" "President Wilson and Mr.Lloyd George have gradually brought the recalcitrant elements into line.

The League of Nations is a reality." "_Yes--but what about France ?_ Has the President been to see these scores of ruined towns, these hundreds of wiped-out villages, these fantastic wrecks of mines and factories, these leagues on leagues of fruitful land given back to waste, these shell-blasted forests, these broken ghosts of France's noblest churches ?" "The President has made a Sunday excursion from Paris to Rheims.