ks it up with less vehemence than I have yet known him bring to the
starting of any car.

We get in. Then, and not till then, I am placable. I say: "You see, Tom,
it wouldn't do to leave that lady and three British wounded behind,
would it?"

What he says about orders then is purely by way of apology.

Regardless of my instructions, he does what I did and dashes up the
wrong boulevard as if the Germans were even now marching into the
_Place_ behind him. But he works round somehow and we arrive.

They are all there, ready and waiting. And the Mother Superior and two
of her nuns are in the corridor. They bring out glasses of hot milk for
everybody. They are so gentle and so kind that I recall with agony my
impatience when I rang at their gate. Even familiar French words desert
me in this crisis, and I implore Miss Ashley-Smith to convey my regrets
for my rudeness. Their only answer is to smile and press hot milk on me.
I am glad of it, for I have been so absorbed in the drama of preparation
that I have entirely forgotten to eat anything since lunch.

The wounded are brought along the passage. We help them into the
ambulance. Two, Williams and ----, are only slightly wounded; they can
sit up all the way. But the third, Fisher, is wounded in the head.
Sometimes he is delirious and must be looked after. A fourth man is
dying and must be left behind.

Then we say good-bye to the nuns.

The other ambulance cars are drawn up in the _Place_ before the
"Flandria," waiting. For the first time I hate the sight of them. This
feeling is inexplicable but profound.

We arrange for the final disposal of the wounded in one of the new
Daimlers, where they can all lie down. Mrs. Torrence comes out and helps
us. The Commandant is not there yet. Dr. Haynes and Dr. Bird pack Dr.
---- away well inside the car. They are very quiet and very firm and
refuse to travel otherwise than together. Mrs. Torrence goes with the
wounded.

I go into the Hospital and upstairs to our quarters to see if anything
has been left behind. If I can find Marie we must take her. There is
room, after all.

But Marie is nowhere to be seen.

Nobody is to be seen but the Belgian night nurses on duty, watching, one
on each landing at the entrance to her corridor. They smile at me
gravely and sadly as they say good-bye.

I have left many places, many houses, many people behind me, knowing
that I shall never see them again. But of all leave-takings this seems