No shells burst near me.  Bethune was being intermittently shelled, but as far as I know not a shell fell in the town while I was there.  I lunched on a hill surrounded by batteries, with the now celebrated towns of Messines and Wytschaete just across a valley, so that one could watch shells bursting over them.  And still nothing threatened my peace of mind or my physical well-being.  And yet it was one of the most interesting days of a not uneventful period.

In the morning I was taken, still in General Huguet’s car, to British Headquarters again, to meet Sir John French.

I confess to a thrill of excitement when the door into his private office was opened and I was ushered in.  The Field Marshal of the British Army was standing by his table.  He came forward at once and shook hands.  In his khaki uniform, with the scarlet straps of his rank on collar and sleeves, he presented a most soldierly and impressive appearance.

A man of middle height, squarely and compactly built, he moves easily.  He is very erect, and his tanned face and grey hair are in strong contrast.  A square and determined jaw, very keen blue eyes and a humorous mouth—­that is my impression of Sir John French.

“We are sending you along the lines,” he said when I was seated.  “But not into danger.  I hope you do not want to go into danger.”

I wish I might tell of the conversation that followed.  It is impossible.  Not that it dealt with vital matters; but it was understood that Sir John was not being interviewed.  He was taking a little time from a day that must have been crowded, to receive with beautiful courtesy a visitor from overseas.  That was all.

There can be no objection, I think, to my mentioning one or two things he spoke of—­of his admiration for General Foch, whom I had just seen, of the tribute he paid to the courage of the Indian troops, and of the marvellous spirit all the British troops had shown under the adverse weather conditions prevailing.  All or most of these things he has said in his official dispatches.

Other things were touched on—­the possible duration of the war, the new problems of what is virtually a new warfare, the possibility of a pestilence when warm weather came, owing to inadequately buried bodies.  The Canadian troops had not arrived at the front at that time, although later in the day I saw their transports on the way, or I am sure he would have spoken of them.  I should like to hear what he has to say about them after their recent gallant fighting.  I should like to see his fine blue eyes sparkle.

The car was at the door, and the same young officer who had taken me about on the previous day entered the room.

“I am putting you in his care,” said Sir John, indicating the new arrival, “because he has a charmed life.  Nothing will happen if you are with him.”  He eyed the tall young officer affectionately.  “He has been fighting since the beginning,” he said, “handling a machine gun in all sorts of terrible places.  And nothing ever touches him.”