ence restored.
And she could not go lest Bertie's grave should be forgotten. In
common with Edith Cavell, Gabrielle Petit, Philippe Bauck, and the
other forty or fifty victims of von Bissing's "Terror," he had been
buried in the grassy slopes of the amphitheatre of the Rifle range,
near where he had been executed. Every Sunday, wet or fine, Vivien
went there with fresh flowers. She had marked the actual grave with
a small wooden cross bearing his name, till the time should come
when she could have his remains transferred to English soil.

One day, as she was leaving the hospital in the autumn of 1917, a
shabby man pushed into her hand a soiled, way-worn copy of the
_Times_, a fortnight old. "Three francs," he whispered. She paid
him. It was no uncommon thing for her or one of her English or
Belgian acquaintances to buy the _Times_ or some other English daily
at a price ranging from one franc to ten, and then pass it round the
friendly circle of subscribers who apportioned the cost. On this
occasion she opened her _Times_ in the tram, going home, and glanced
at its columns. In any one but "Mees Varennes" in these days of
1917, 1918, this would have been a punishable offence; but in her
case no spy or policeman noted the infringement of regulations about
the enemy press. On one of the pages she read the account of a bad
air-raid on Portland Place, and a reference--with a short obituary
notice elsewhere--to the death of one of the victims of the German
bombs. This was "Linda, Lady Rossiter, the dearly loved wife of Sir
Michael Rossiter, whose discoveries in the way of bone grafting and
other forms of curative surgery had been among the outstanding
achievements in etc., etc."

"Dear me!" said Vivien to herself, as the tram coursed on beyond her
usual stopping place and the conductor obstinately looked the other
way, "I'm glad she lived to be _Lady_ Rossiter. It must have given
her such pleasure. Poor thing! And to think the knowledge that he's
a widower hardly stirs my pulses one extra beat. And how I _loved_
that man, seven years, six years, five years ago! Hullo! Where am I?
Miles from the Rue Haute! Conducteur! Arretez, s'il vous plait."

CHAPTER XX

AFTER THE ARMISTICE

The Bruxellois felt very disheartened in the closing months of 1917.
The Russian revolution had brought about the collapse of Russia as
an enemy of Germany; and the Germans were enabled to transport most
of their troops on the Russian fron