??ut work has to be done, so we borrow a couple of chairs and seat ourselves where we can command a good view of all that is going on. My colleague begins to sketch; I begin to write. For a quarter of an hour there is silence. Suddenly a voice behind bawls out, “Que faites-vous la? ” and three gold – braided commissionaires march forward and stand above us threateningly. In order to make more sure of the situation, one of them beckons to a gendarme to approach. It is the same trouble again, that of sketching in the Salon. You can take as many photographs as you like, but if you get caught with a sketch-book and a pencil you are looked upon as a foreign spy and get I treated accordingly. It happened to me last year, it has happened again this year, and I suppose it will happen next year. First of all, they try to snatch your sketch-book, and this you have to be prepared for. Then the ‘chief-in-command of the capturing squad orders that you be escorted down below to the department where austere officials sit in state to attend, amongst other duties, to erring journalists. The proceedings are so solemn that, by the time you have been lectured for twenty minutes in rapidly-spoken French, you begin to feel that you really have done something very terrible, and you leave the place with a contrite heart until you get outside in the Salon again, where, if you do not find yourself shadowed by the trio who originally caught you, you begin sketching again, only perhaps not quite so openly.??Paris Salon, Flight 2.11.1912