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Saturday afternoon: Café Biard

March 27, 1915

A LOVELY woman sits in here with me. She's got a fool of a man with her that she hates beyond words. So would I. She wears a big rose under her chin—her eyes are lovely, but very shadowed with a purple ring. She is not only bored; she is trying not to cry. Three fat jossers at a table near by are vastly amused. Two dirty little froggies, smoking pipes ‘à l'anglaise’ and ragging each other, are next to me. They occasionally sing at me, or snap their fingers. They are the most hideous little touts.

New—I ought to have known it—my lovely woman is playing a game of cards with her cavalier. Mon dieu! she does look lovely with the fan of cards in her hand, the other hand hovering over, and her lip just pouting. I must go. This is a fool of a letter….

Pretty business this German-chasing! And a pity they have to photograph such decent honest-looking wretches as the belles proies. It's a filthy trick; there's no difference between England and Germany when the mob gets a hand in things. No difference between any nations on earth; they are all equally loathsome.