She would remember for ever the talk they had on the balcony that day
while Antwerp was falling.

They were standing there, she and John Conway and Sutton, looking over
the station and the railway lines to the open country beyond: the fields,
the tall slender trees, the low mounds of the little hills, bristling and
dark. Round the corner of the balcony they could see into the _Place_
below; it was filled with a thick black crowd of refugees. Antwerp was
falling. Presently the ambulance train would come in and they would have
to go over there to the station with their stretchers and carry out the
wounded. Meanwhile they waited.

John brooded. His face was heavy and sombre with discontent. "No," he
said. "No. It isn't good enough."

"What isn't?"

"What we're doing here. Going to all those little tin-pot places. The
real fighting isn't down there. They ought to send us to Antwerp."

"I suppose they send us where they think we're most wanted."

"I don't believe they do. We were fools not to have insisted on going
to Antwerp, instead of letting ourselves be stuck here in a rotten
side show."

"We've had enough to do, anyhow," said Sutton.