“Das macht nichts.  The rooms are wanted and I won’t have you on the premises.  Off you go, or these soldiers shall take you both round to the Kommandantur.”

“But our luggage? Surely you will let me go up to our room and pack it—­and take it away?  We...”

“Your luggage has been packed and is in the corridor.  If you send round for it, it shall be delivered to your messenger.  But you are not to stop on the premises another minute.  You understand?” he almost shrieked.

“But—­”

For answer, the soldiers took them by the shoulders and whirled them through the revolving door on to the pavement, where a crowd began to collect, as it does in peace or war if you cough twice or sneeze three times in Brussels.  “Englische Hure!  Englische Kuepplerin,” shouted the soldiers as they retreated and locked the revolving door.  Mrs. Warren turned purple and swayed.  Vivie caught her round the waist with her strong arm....  Thus was Mrs. Warren ejected from the once homely inn which she had converted by her energy, management and capital into the second most magnificent hostelry of Brussels; thus was Vivie expelled from the place of her birth....

Hearing the shouting and seeing the crowd a Belgian gendarme came up.  To him Vivie said, “Si vous etes Chretien et pas Allemand—­” “Prenez garde, Madame,” he said warningly—­“Vous m’aiderez a porter ma mere a quelqu’ endroit ou elle peut se remettre...”

He assisted her to carry the inert old woman across the street and a short distance along the opposite pavement.  Here, there was a pleasant, modest-looking tea-shop with the name of Walcker over the front, and embedded in the plate glass were the words “Tea Rooms.”  These of course dated from long before the war, when the best Chinese tea was only four francs the demi-kilo and the fashion for afternoon tea had become established in Brussels.  Vivie and her mother had often entered Walcker’s shop in happier days for a cup of tea and delicious forms of home-made pastry.  Besides the cakes, which in pre-war times were of an excellence rarely equalled, they had been drawn to the pleasant-looking serving woman.  She was so English in appearance, though she only spoke French and Flemish.  Behind the shop was a cosy little room where the more intimate clients were served with tea; a room with a look-out into a little square of garden.  Thither Mrs. Warren was carried or supported.  She regained consciousness slightly as she was placed on a chair, opened her eyes, and said “Thank you, my dears.”  Then her head fell over to one side and she was dead—­seemingly....

The agent de police went away to fetch a doctor and to disperse the crowd of ketjes[1] and loafers which had transferred itself from the hotel to the tea-shop.  The shop woman, who was one of those angels of kindness that turn up unexpectedly in the paths of unhappy people, called in a stout serving wench from the kitchen, and the three of them carried Mrs. Warren out of the inner tea-room into the back premises and a spare bedroom.  Here she was laid on the bed, partially undressed and all available and likely restoratives applied.