So the car went on; and, luncheonless, I met the Queen of the Belgians.

The royal villa at La Panne faces the sea.  It is at the end of the village and the encroaching dunes have ruined what was meant to be a small lawn.  The long grass that grows out of the sand is the only vegetation about it; and outside, half-buried in the dune, is a marble seat.  A sentry box or two, and sentries with carbines pacing along the sand; the constant swish of the sea wind through the dead winter grass; the half-buried garden seat—­that is what the Queen of the Belgians sees as she looks from the window of her villa.

The villa itself is small and ugly.  The furnishing is the furnishing of a summer seaside cottage.  The windows fit badly and rattle in the gale.  In the long drawing room—­really a living room—­in which I waited for the Queen, a heavy red curtain had been hung across the lower part of the long French windows that face the sea, to keep out the draft.  With that and an open coal fire the room was fairly comfortable.

As I waited I looked about.  Rather a long room this, which has seen so many momentous discussions, so much tragedy and real grief.  A chaotic room too; for, in addition to its typical villa furnishing of chintz-covered chairs and a sofa or two, an ordinary pine table by a side window was littered with papers.

On a centre table were books—­H.G.  Wells’ “The War in the Air”; two American books written by correspondents who had witnessed the invasion of Belgium; and several newspapers.  A hideous marble bust on a pedestal occupied a corner, and along a wall was a very small cottage piano.  On the white marble mantel were a clock and two candlesticks.  Except for a great basket of heather on a stand—­a gift to Her Majesty—–­the room was evidently just as its previous owners had left it.  A screen just inside the door, a rather worn rug on the floor, and a small brocade settee by the fireplace completed the furnishing.

The door opened and the Queen entered without ceremony.  I had not seen her before.  In her simple blue dress, with its white lawn collar and cuffs, she looked even more girlish than I had anticipated.  Like Queen Mary of England, she had suffered from the camera.  She is indeed strikingly beautiful, with lovely colouring and hair, and with very direct wide eyes, set far apart.  She is small and slender, and moves quickly.  She speaks beautiful English, in that softly inflected voice of the Continent which is the envy of all American women.

I bowed as she entered; and she shook hands with me at once and asked me to sit down.  She sat on the sofa by the fireplace.  Like the Queen of England, like King Albert, her first words were of gratitude to America.

It is not my intention to record here anything but the substance of my conversation with Queen Elisabeth of Belgium.  Much that was said was the free and unrestricted speech of two women, talking over together a situation which was tragic to them both; for Queen Elisabeth allowed me to forget, as I think she had ceased to remember, her own exalted rank, in her anxiety for her people.