French _poilus_, of unloading ships, and British soldiers, as the bases we
had left, only on a smaller scale. And beyond the town we climbed again on
to the high land, through a beautiful country of interwoven downs, and
more plentiful habitation. Soon, indeed, the roads began to show the signs
of war--a village or small town, its picturesque market-place filled with
a park of artillery wagons; roads lined with motor lorries with the
painted shell upon them that tells ammunition; British artillerymen in
khaki, bringing a band of horses out of a snow-bound farm; closed
motor-cars filled with officers hurrying past; then an open car with
King's Messengers, tall, soldierly figures, looking in some astonishment
at the two ladies, as they hurry by. And who or what is this horseman
looming out of the sleet--like a figure from a piece of Indian or Persian
embroidery, turbaned and swarthy, his cloak swelling out round his
handsome head and shoulders, the buildings of a Norman farm behind him?
"There are a few Indian cavalry about here," says our guide--"they are
billeted in the farms." And presently the road is full of them. Their
Eastern forms, their dark, intent faces pass strangely through the Norman
landscape.

Now we are only some forty miles from the line, and we presently reach
another town containing an important British Headquarters, where we are to
stop for luncheon. The inn at which we put up is like the song in "Twelfth
Night," "old and plain"--and when lunch is done, our Colonel goes to pay
an official call at Headquarters, and my daughter and I make our way to
the historic church of the town. The Colonel joins us here with another
officer, who brings the amazing news that "G.H.Q."--General
Headquarters--that mysterious centre and brain of all things--invites us
for two days! If we accept, an officer will come for us on the morning of
March 1st to our hotel in Boulogne and take us by motor, some forty miles,
to the guest-house where G.H.Q. puts up its visitors. "_Accept!"_ Ah, if