the Army treats its horses!).  But the most novel addition to the camp has been a Fat Factory for the production of fat,—­from which comes the glycerine used in explosives—­out of all the food refuse of the camp.  The fat produced by the system, here and in England, has already provided glycerine far millions of eighteen-pounder shells; the problem of camp refuse, always a desperate one, has been solved; and as a commercial venture the factory makes 250 per cent. profit.

Undeterred by what we hear of the smells! we go off to see it, and the enthusiastic manager explains the unsavoury processes by which the bones and refuse of all the vast camp are boiled down into a white fat, that looks almost eatable, but is meant, as a matter of fact, to feed not men but shells.  Nor is that the only contribution to the fighting line which the factory makes.  All the cotton waste of the hospitals, with their twenty thousand beds—­the old dressings and bandages—­come here, and after sterilisation and disinfection go to England for gun-cotton.  Was there ever a grimmer cycle than this, by which that which feeds, and that which heals, becomes in the end that which kills!  But let me try to forget that side of it, and remember, rather, as we leave the smells behind, that the calcined bones become artificial manure, and go back again into the tortured fields of France, while other bye-products of the factory help the peasants near to feed their pigs.  And anything, however small, that helps the peasants of France in this war, comforts one’s heart.

We climb up to the high ground of the camp for a general view before we go on to G.H.Q. and I see it, as I saw it last year, spread under the March sunshine, among the sand and the pines—­a wonderful sight.  “Everything has grown, you see, except the staff!” says the Colonel, smiling, as we shake hands.  “But we rub along!”

Then we are in the motor again, and at last the new G.H.Q.—­how different from that I saw last year!—­rises before us.  We make our way into the town, and presently the car stops for a minute before a building, and while our officer goes within, we retreat into a side street to wait.  But my thoughts are busy.  For that building, of which the side-front is still visible, is the brain of the British Army in France, and on the men who work there depend the fortunes of that distant line where our brothers and sons are meeting face to face the horrors and foulnesses of war.  How many women whose hearts hang on the war, whose all is there, in daily and nightly jeopardy, read the words “British Headquarters” with an involuntary lift of soul, an invocation without words!  Yet scarcely half a dozen Englishwomen in this war will ever see the actual spot.  And here it is, under my eyes, the cold March sun shining fitfully on it, the sentry at the door, the khaki figures passing in and out.  I picture to myself the rooms within, and the news arriving of General Gough’s advance on the Ancre, of that German retreat as to which all Europe is speculating.