something
of their spirit, of the invincible courage and resolution of the
French to fight in the cause of humanity and justice."

Luncheon was over. It had been a good luncheon, of a mound of boiled
cabbage, finely minced beef in the centre, of mutton cutlets and
potatoes, of strawberry jam, cheese and coffee. There had been a
bottle of red wine on the table. A few of the staff took a little,
diluting it with water. General Foch did not touch it.

We rose. I had an impression that I had had my interview; but the
hospitality and kindness of this French general were to go further.

In the little corridor he picked up his dark-blue cap and we set out
for official headquarters, followed by several of the officers. He
walked rapidly, taking the street to give me the narrow sidewalk and
going along with head bent against the wind. In the square, almost
deserted, a number of staff cars had gathered, and lorries lumbered
through. We turned to the left, between the sentry and the gendarme,
and climbing a flight of wooden stairs were in the anteroom of the
general's office. Here were tables covered with papers, telephones,
maps, the usual paraphernalia of such rooms. We passed through a pine
door, and there was the general's room--a bare and shabby room, with a
large desk in front of the two windows that overlooked the street, a
shaded lamp, more papers and a telephone. The room had a fireplace,
and in front of it was a fine old chair. And on the mantelpiece, as
out of place as the chair, was a marvellous Louis-Quinze clock, under
glass. There were great maps on the walls, with the opposing battle
lines shown to the smallest detail. General Foch drew my attention at
once to the clock.

"During the battle of the Yser," he said, "night and day my eyes were
on that clock. Orders were sent. Then it was necessary to wait until
they were carried out. It was by the clock that one could know what
should be happening. The hours dragged. It was terrible."

It must have been terrible. Everywhere I had heard the same story.
More than any of the great battles of the war, more even than the
battle of the Marne, the great fight along the Yser, from the
twenty-first of October, 1914, to the twelfth of November, seems to
have impressed itself in sheer horror on the minds of those who know
its fearfulness. At every headquarters I have found the same feeling.

It was General Foch's army that reenforced the British at that battle.
The word