It is strange, upon this wet aad windy winter evening,
to sit gazing into the fire and to think back upon the Berlin of only ten years ago. The Locarno spirit cast its beneficent beams over all our actions. Then came the Kellogg Pact. Stresemann left his nursing home at Baden Baden and travelled in acute agony to Paris. Some Germans hissed him at the station, but the French citizens received him with acclaim. He spoke with Poincare. He signed the pact. He returned to Baden Baden and he died. Locamo in those days created a sense of sunshine in our lives. Berlin basked for a while in the beams of that diplomatic triumph, not unassisted by the floods of American money which poured into the country. Conciliation was in the air. The Weimar Republic (in spite of Herr Adlon's obstinacy in hoisting the Imperial flag upon his hotel) appeared to have discovered itself in terms of a sort of Louis Philippe vul- garity. We were all very pleased.
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