an
avenue of trees to the eighteenth-century chateau, which is used by G.H.Q.
as a hostel for its guests--allied and neutral correspondents, military
attaches, special missions, and the like. In a few minutes I found myself
standing bewildered by the strangeness and the interest of it all, in a
charming Louis-Quinze room, plain and simple in the true manner of the
genuine French country house, but with graceful panelled walls, an old
_armoire_ of the date, windows wide open to the spring sun, and a
half-wild garden outside. A _femme de menage_, much surprised to be
waiting on two ladies, comes to look after us. And this is France!--and we
are only thirty miles from that fighting line, which has drawn our English
hearts to it all these days.

A map is waiting for each of us down-stairs, and we are told, roughly,
where it is proposed to take us. A hurried lunch, and we are in the motor
again, with Captain ---- sitting in front. "You have your passes?" he asks
us, and we anxiously verify the new and precious papers that brought us
from our last stage, and will have to be shown on our way. We drive first
to Arques, and Hazebrouck, then southeast. At a certain village we call at
the Divisional Headquarters. The General comes out himself, and proposes
to guide us on. "I will take you as near to the fighting line as I can."

On we went, in two motors; the General with me, Captain ---- and D.
following. We passed through three villages, and after the first we were
within shell range of the German batteries ahead. But I cannot remember
giving a thought to the fact, so absorbing to the unaccustomed eye were
all the accumulating signs of the actual battle-line; the endless rows of
motor-lorries, either coming back from, or going up to the front, now with
food, now with ammunition, reserve trenches to right and left of the road;
a "dump" or food-station, whence carts filled from the heavy lorries go
actually up to the trenches, lines of artillery wagons, parks of
ammunition, or motor-ambulances, long lines of picketed horses,
motor-cyclists dashing past. In one village we saw a merry crowd in the
little _place_ gathered round a field-kitchen whence came an excellent
fragrance of good stew. A number of the men were wearing leeks in their
ears for St. David's Day. "You're Welsh, then?" I said to one of the cooks
(by this time we had left the motor and were walking). "I'm not!" said the
little fellow, with a laughing look. "It's St.