ads heroically prepared to sacrifice the last young man; the sleek,
purring women who talked childish nonsense about killing every man, woman
and child in Germany, but quite meant it; the shrieking journalists who
had decided that their place was the home front; the press-spurred mobs,
the spy hunters, chasing terrified old men and sobbing children through
the streets. It was a relief to enter the quiet ward and close the door
behind her. The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, the
balladmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers! War brought
out all that was worst in them. But the givers of their blood, the lads
who suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry,
manhood. She heard no revilings of hatred and revenge from those drawn
lips. Patience, humour, forgiveness, they had learnt from war. They
told her kindly stories even of Hans and Fritz.

The little drummer in her brain would creep out of his corner, play to
her softly while she moved about among them.

One day she received a letter from Folk. He had come to London at the
request of the French Government to consult with English artists on a
matter he must not mention. He would not have the time, he told her, to
run down to Liverpool. Could she get a couple of days' leave and dine
with him in London.

She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel. He had quite a
military bearing and seemed pleased with himself. He kissed her hand,
and then held her out at arms' length.

"It's wonderful how like you are to your mother," he said, "I wish I were
as young as I feel."

She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wish
to get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to help
her.

"But perhaps you've changed your mind," he said. "It isn't quite as
pretty as it's painted."

"I want to," she answered. "It isn't all curiosity. I think it's time
for women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust any
longer to the pictures you men paint." She smiled.

"But I've got to give it up," she added. "I can't leave Dad."

They were sitting in the hall of the hotel. It was the dressing hour and
the place was almost empty. He shot a swift glance at her.

"Arthur is still away," she explained, "and I feel that he wants me. I
should be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to look
after him. It's the mother instinct I suppose. It always has ham