An elderly gardener who had been snipping and sweeping in the next house came up and vaguely recognized her as a well-known Bruxelloise, a good-natured lady, a foreigner who, strange to say, spoke Flemish.  “Ach,” he said, looking out where he thought lay the source of her tears, at the dim view of beautiful Brussels through the steamy glass, “Onze arme, oude Bruessel.”  Mrs. Warren wept unrestrainedly.  “Madame is ill?” he enquired.  Mrs. Warren nodded—­she felt indeed very ill and giddy.  He left her and returned shortly with a small glass of Schnapps.  “If Madame is faint—?” She sipped the cordial and presently felt better.  Then they talked of old times.  Madame had kept the Hotel Leopold II in the Rue Royale?  Ah, now he placed her.  A superb establishment, always well-spoken of.  Her self-respect returned a little.  “Yes,” she said, “never a complaint!  I looked after those girls like a mother, indeed I did.  Many a one married well from there.”  The gardener corroborated her statement, and added that her clientele had been of the most chic.  He had a private florist’s business of his own and he had been privileged often to send bouquets to the pensionnaires of Madame.  But Madame was not alone surely in these sad times.  Had he not seen her come here with a handsome English lady who was said to have been—­to have been—­fortunately—­au mieux with one of the German officials?

“That was my daughter,” Mrs. Warren informed him with pride....  “She is a lady who has taken a high degree at an English University.  She has been an important person in the English feminist movement.  When this dreadful war is over, I and my daughter will—­”

At this juncture Vivie entered. “Mother, I hope you haven’t missed me, haven’t been unwell?” she said, looking rather questioningly at the little glass of Schnapps, only half of which had been drunk.

“Well yes, dear, I have. Terrible low spirits and all swimmy-like.  Thought I was going to faint.  But this man here has been so kind “—­her tears flowed afresh—­“We’ve bin talking of old times; he used to know me before—­”

Vivie:  “Quite so.  But I think, dear, we had better be going back.  I want to talk to you about the new rooms I’ve seen.  Are you equal to walking?  If not perhaps this kind man would try to get us a cab...?”

But Mrs. Warren said it was no distance, only round the corner, and she could well walk.  When they got back she would go and lie down.  Vivie, reading her mother’s thoughts, pressed a five-franc note into the gardener’s not reluctant palm, and they regained the Rue Royale.

But just as they were passing through the revolving door of the Hotel Imperial, a German who had been installed as manager came up with two soldiers and said explosively:  “Heraus!  Foutez-nous le camp!  Aout you go!  Don’t show your face here again!”

“But,” said Vivie, “our notice doesn’t expire till the end of this week...!”