up. Leaving most of her
luggage at the cloak-room--it took her about three-quarters of an
hour even to approach the receiving counter--Vivie walked across to
the _Palace Hotel_ and asked the night porter to get her a room. But
every room was occupied, they said--Americans, British, wealthy war
refugees from southern Belgium, military officers of the Allies. The
only concession made to her--for the porter could hold out little
hope of any neighbouring hotel having an empty room--was to allow
her to sit and sleep in one of the comfortable basket chairs in the
long atrium. At six o'clock a compassionate waiter who knew the name
of Mrs. Warren gave her daughter some coffee and milk and a
_brioche_. At seven she managed to get her luggage taken to one of
the trams at the corner of the Boulevard du Jardin Botanique. The
train service to Tervueren was suspended--and at the Porte de Namur
she would be transferred to the No. 45 tram which would take her out
to Tervueren.

Even at an early hour Brussels seemed crowded and as the tram passed
along the handsome boulevards the shops were being opened and
tourists were on their way to Waterloo in brakes. Every one seemed
to think in mid-August, 1914, that Germany was destined to receive
her _coup-de-grace_ on the field of Waterloo. It would be so
appropriate. And no one--at any rate of those who spoke their
thoughts aloud--seemed to consider that Brussels was menaced.

Leaving her luggage at the tram terminus, Vivie sped on foot through
forest roads, where the dew still glistened, to the Villa
Beau-sejour. Mrs. Warren was not yet dressed, but was rapturous in
her greeting. Her chauffeur had been called up, so the auto could
not go out, but a farm cart would be sent for the luggage.

"I believe, mother, I'm going to enjoy myself enormously," said
Vivie as she sat in the verandah in the morning sunshine, making a
delicious _petit dejeuner_ out of fresh rolls, the butter of the
farm, a few slices of sausage, and a big cup of frothing chocolate
topped with whipped cream. The scene that spread before her was
idyllic, from a bucolic point of view. The beech woods of Tervueren
shut out any horizon of town activity; black and white cows were
being driven out to pasture, a flock of geese with necks raised
vertically waggled sedately along their own chosen path, a little
disturbed and querulous over the arrival of a stranger; turkey hens
and their half-grown poults and a swelling, strutti