A
passage led to a square centre hall from which opened various rooms--a
library, with a wood fire, the latest possible London and Paris
papers, a flat-topped desk and a large map; a very large drawing-room,
which is Sir John French's private office, with white walls panelled
with rose brocade, a marble mantel, and a great centre table, covered,
like the library desk, with papers; a dining room, wainscoted and
comfortable. There were other rooms, which I did not see. In the
square hall an orderly sat all day, waiting for orders of various
sorts.
Colonel Fitzgerald greeted me amiably. He regretted that Sir John
French was absent, and was curious as to how I had penetrated to the
fastnesses of British Headquarters without trouble. Now and then,
glancing at him unexpectedly during the excellent luncheon that
followed, I found his eyes fixed on me thoughtfully, intently. It was
not at all an unfriendly gaze. Rather it was the look of a man who is
painstakingly readjusting his mental processes to meet a new
situation.
He made a delightful host. I sat at his right. At the other end of the
table was General Huguet, and across from me a young English nobleman,
attached to the field marshal's staff, came in, a few minutes late,
and took his place. The Prince of Wales, who lives there, had gone to
the trenches the day before.
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