But the abbe was
changed. He was without the smile, without the cigarette. And he was
speaking beseechingly to the smiling young refugee. This is what he
was saying:
"I am glad, daughter, to help you in every way that I can. I have
bought for you in Calais everything that you requested. But I implore
you, daughter, do not ask me to purchase any more ladies' underlinen.
It is most embarrassing."
"But, father--"
"No underlinen," he repeated firmly. But it hurt him to refuse. One
could see that. One imagined, too, that in his life of service there
were few refusals. I left them still debating. The abbe's eyes were
desperate but his posture firm. One felt that there would be no
surrender.
Another picture, and I shall leave La Panne for a time.
I was preparing to go. A telephone message to General Melis, of the
Belgian Army, had brought his car to take me to Dunkirk. I was about
to leave the protection of the Belgian Red Cross and place myself in
the care of the ministry of war. I did not know what the future would
bring, and the few days at La Panne and the Ambulance Ocean had made
friends for me there. Things move quickly in war time. The
conventions with which we bind up our souls in ordinary life are cut
away. La Panne was already familiar and friendly territory.
I went down the wide staircase.
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