seeking their outlet at the well of the staircase.

On the third floor, at the turn of the corridor, a small vestibule
between two glass doors led to a room flooded with a blond light from the
south. Beyond the glass doors, their figures softened by the deep,
doubled shimmer of the panes, they saw the little man in shabby tweeds,
the two women, and the seven other men. This, Madame explained, was Dr.
Donald McClane's Field Ambulance Corps. You could see it had thought it
was the only one. As they entered they met the swoop of two beautiful,
indignant eyes, a slow turning and abrupt stiffening of shoulders; the
movement of the group was palpable, a tremor of hostility and resentment.

It lasted with no abatement while Madame, standing there in her gaunt
Flemish graciousness, murmured names. "Mrs. Rankin--" Mrs. Rankin nodded
insolently and turned away. "Miss Bartrum--" Miss Bartrum, the rather
charming one, bowed, drawing the shadow of grave eyebrows over sweet
eyes. "Dr. Donald McClane--" As he bowed the Commandant's stare arched up
at them, then dropped, suddenly innocent, suddenly indifferent.

They looked around. Madame and her graciousness had gone. Nobody made a
place for them at the two long tables set together in the middle of the
room. The McClane Corps had spread itself over all the chairs and
benches, in obstinate possession. They passed out through the open French
windows on to the balcony.

It looked south over the railway towards the country where they thought
the fighting must be. They could see the lines where the troop trains
ran, going northwest and southeast, and the railway station and post
office all in one long red-brick building that had a flat roof with a
crenellated parapet. Grass grew on the roof. And beyond the black railway