Throughout England, as in these naval officers beside me, there is the
same tense yet disciplined expectancy. As we lunch and talk, on this
cruiser at rest, messages come in perpetually; the cruiser itself is
ready for the open sea, at an hour and a half's notice; the seaplanes
pass out and come in over the mouth of the harbour on their voyages of
discovery and report, and these destroyers and mine-sweepers that he so
quietly near us will be out again to-night in the North Sea, grappling
with every difficulty and facing every danger, in the true spirit of a
wonderful service, while we land-folk sleep and eat in peace;--grumbling
no doubt, with our morning newspaper and coffee, when any of the German
destroyers who come out from Zeebrugge are allowed to get home with a
whole skin. "What on earth is the Navy about?" Well, the Navy knows.
Germany is doing her very worst, and will go on doing it--for a time.
The line of defensive watch in the North Sea is long; the North Sea is a
big place; the Germans often have the luck of the street-boy who rings a
bell and runs away, before the policeman comes up. But the Navy has no
doubts. The situation, says one of my cheerful hosts, is "quite healthy"
and we shall see "great things in the coming months." We had better
leave it at that!

Now let us look at these destroyers in another scene. It is the last day
of February, and I find myself on a military steamer, bound for a French
Port, and on my way to the British Headquarters in France. With me is
the same dear daughter who accompanied me last year as "dame secrétaire"
on my first errand. The boat is crowded with soldiers, and before we
reach the French shore we have listened to almost every song--old and
new--in Tommy's repertory. There is even "Tipperary," a snatch, a ghost
of "Tipperary," intermingled with many others, rising and falling, no
one knows why, started now here, now there, and dying away again after a