look at the massing of the French troops at Courtrai! He is not deceived
by the specious pretext of the temporary hospital. Hospitals be blowed.
It's a bloomin' joy-ride, with about as much Red Cross in it as there is
in my hat. He is glad that it is raining.

Yes, I know what Tom is thinking. And all the time I have a sneaking
sympathy with Tom. I want to go to Courtrai more than I ever wanted
anything in my life, but I see the expedition plainly from Tom's point
of view. A field ambulance is a field ambulance and not a motor touring
car.

And to-day Tom is justified. We have hardly got upon his car than we
were told to get off it. We are not going to Courtrai. We are not going
anywhere. From somewhere in those mysterious regions where it abides,
the Military Power has come down.

Even as I get off the car and return to the Hospital-prison, in
melancholy retreat over the yellow-brown clay of the yard, through the
rain, I acknowledge the essential righteousness of the point of view.
And, to the everlasting honour of the Old Chivalry, it should be stated
that the chauffeur Tom repressed all open and visible expression of his
joy.

The morning passes, as the other mornings passed, in unspeakable
inactivity. Except that I make up the accounts and hand them over to Mr.
Grierson. It seems incredible, but I have balanced them to the last
franc.

I pack. Am surprised in packing by Max and Jean. They both want to know
the reason why. This is the terrible part of the business--leaving Max
and Jean.

I try to explain. Prosper Panne, who "writes for the Paris papers,"
understands me. He can see that the Hotel de la Poste may be a better
base for an attack upon the London papers. But Max does not understand.
He perceives that I have a scruple about occupying my room. And he takes
me into _his_ room to show me how nice it is--every bit as good as mine.
The implication being that if the Hospital can afford to lodge one of
its orderlies so well, it can perfectly well afford to lodge me. (This
is one of the prettiest things that Max has done yet! As long as I live
I shall see him standing in his room and showing me how nice it is.)

Still you can always appeal from Max to Prosper Panne. He understands
these journalistic tempers and caprices. He knows on how thin a thread
an article can hang. We have a brief discussion on the comparative
difficulties of the _roman_ and the _conte_, and he promises me to
cherish and protect th