I was guilty of a faint suspicion that he was a diplomatist.




VIII
In Belgium Under The Germans



No week at the front, where war is made, left the mind so full as this
week beyond the sound of the guns with war's results. It taught the
meaning of the simple words life and death, hunger and food, love
and hate. One was in a house with sealed doors where a family of
seven millions sat in silence and idleness, thinking of nothing but war
and feeling nothing but war. He had war cold as the fragments of an
exploded shell beside a dead man on a frozen road; war analysed
and docketed for exhibition, without its noise, its distraction, and its
hot passion.

In Ostend I had seen the Belgian refugees in flight, and I had seen
them pouring into London stations, bedraggled outcasts of every
class, with the staring uncertainty of the helpless human flock flying
from the storm. England, who considered that they had suffered for
her sake, opened her purse and her heart to them; she opened her
homes, both modest suburban homes and big country houses which
are particular about their guests in time of peace. No British family
without a Belgian was doing its duty. Bishop's wife and publican's wife
took whatever Belgian was sent to her. The refugee packet arrived
without the nature of contents on the address tag. All Belgians had