arded individual, much given to bowing,
presented himself at the door of my room in the hotel at Dunkirk, and
extended to me a notification that the Queen of the Belgians would
receive me the next day at the royal villa at La Panne, I was keenly
expectant.

I went over my wardrobe. It was exceedingly limited and more than a
little worn. Furs would cover some of the deficiencies, but there was
a difficulty about shoe buttons. Dunkirk apparently laces its shoes.
After a period of desperation, two top buttons were removed and sewed
on lower down, where they would do the most good. That and much
brushing was all that was possible, my total war equipment comprising
one small suitcase, two large notebooks and a fountain pen.

I had been invited to lunch at a town on my way to La Panne, but the
luncheon was deferred. When I passed through my would-be entertainer
was eating bully beef out of a tin, with a cracker or two; and shells
were falling inhospitably. Suddenly I was not hungry. I did not care
for food. I did not care to stop to talk about food. It was a very
small town, and there were bricks and glass and plaster in the
streets. There were almost no people, and those who were there were
hastily preparing for flight.

It was a wonderful Sunday afternoon, brilliantly sunny. A German
aeroplane hung overhead and called the bull's-eyes. From the plain
near they were firing at it, but the shells burst below. One could see
how far they fell short by the clouds of smoke that hung suspended
beneath it, floating like shadowy balloons.

I felt that the aeroplane had its eyes on my car. They drop darts--do
the aeroplanes--two hundred and more at a time; small pencil-shaped
arrows of steel, six inches long, extremely sharp and weighted at the
point end. I did not want to die by a dart. I did not want to die by a
shell. As a matter of fact, I did not want to die at all.

So the car went on; and, luncheonless, I met the Queen of the
Belgians.

The royal villa at La Panne faces the sea. It is at the end of the
village and the encroaching dunes have ruined what was meant to be a
small lawn. The long grass that grows out of the sand is the only
vegetation about it; and outside, half-buried in the dune, is a marble
seat. A sentry box or two, and sentries with carbines pacing along the
sand; the constant swish of the sea wind through the dead winter
grass; the half-buried garden seat--that is what the Queen of the
Belgians sees as s