But we move on—­to a quiet country house in a town garden—­the Headquarters Mess of the Intelligence Department.  Here I find, among our kind hosts, men already known to me from my visit of the year before, men whose primary business it is to watch the enemy, who know where every German regiment and German Commander are, who through the aerial photography of our airmen are now acquainted with every step of the German retreat, and have already the photographs of his second line.  All the information gathered from prisoners, and from innumerable other sources, comes here; and the department has its eye besides on everything that happens within the zone of our Armies in France.  For a woman to be received here is an exception—­perhaps I may say an honour—­of which I am rather tremulously aware.  Can I make it worth while?  But a little conversation with these earnest and able men shows plainly that they have considered the matter like any other incident in the day’s work. England’s Effort has been useful; therefore I am to be allowed again to see and write for myself; and therefore, what information can be given me as to the growth of our military power in France since last year will be given.  It is not, of course, a question of war correspondence, which is not within a woman’s powers.  But it is a question of as much “seeing” as can be arranged for, combined with as much first-hand information as time and the censor allow.  I begin to see my way.

The conversation at luncheon—­the simplest of meals—­and during a stroll afterwards, is thrilling indeed to us newcomers.  “The coming summer’s campaign must decide the issue of the war—­though it may not see the end of it.”  “The issue of the war”—­and the fate of Europe!  “An inconclusive peace would be a victory for Germany.”  There is no doubt here as to the final issue; but there is a resolute refusal to fix dates, or prophesy details.  “Man for man we are now the better army.  Our strength is increasing month by month, while that of Germany is failing.  Men and officers, who a year ago were still insufficiently trained, are now seasoned troops with nothing to learn from the Germans; and the troops recruited under the Military Service Act, now beginning to come out, are of surprisingly good quality.”  On such lines the talk runs, and it is over all too soon.

Then we are in the motor again, bound for an aerodrome forty or fifty miles away.  We are late, and the last twenty-seven kilometres fly by in thirty-two minutes!  It is a rolling country, and there are steep descents and sharp climbs, through the thickly-scattered and characteristic villages and small old towns of the Nord, villages crowded all of them with our men.  Presently, with a start, we find ourselves on a road which saw us last spring—­a year ago, to the day.  The same blue distances, the same glimpses of old towns in the hollows, the same touches of snow on the heights.  At last, in the cold sunset light,