Her orders were executed.

She then sent a message to Mme. Walcker and to the kind tea-shop woman, Mme. Trouessart, close by, explaining what she had done and why.  “I shall take control of this hotel in the name of the Belgian Company that owns it, a Company in which, through my mother, I possess shares.  I shall stay here till responsible persons take it over and I shall resume possession of the appartement that belonged to my mother.”  Meantime, would Madame Trouessart engage a few stout wenches to eke out the scanty hotel staff, most of which being German had already commenced its flight back to the fatherland with all the plunder it could carry off.  The soldier-ex-hotel-waiter was provisionally engaged to remain, as long as the Belgian Government allowed him, and three stalwart British soldiers, until the day before prisoners-of-war, were enlisted in her service and armed with revolvers to repel any ordinary act of brigandage.

By the end of November she had the Hotel Edouard-Sept—­with the old name restored—­running smoothly and ready for the new guests—­British, French officers and civilians who would follow the King of the Belgians on his return to his capital.  The re-established Belgian authorities soon put her into possession of the Villa Beau-sejour.  The German sergeant-major here had kept faith with her, and in return for handing over everything intact, including the herd of cows, received a douceur which amply rewarded him for this belated honesty before he, too, set his face towards Germany with the rest of the evacuating army.  The motor-car she had bought enabled her to fetch supplies of food from farm to hotel and to perform many little services to Belgians who were returning to their old homes.  Madame Trouessart, not as yet having any stock of tea with which to reopen her tea-shop to the first incoming of curious tourists, agreed to live with Miss Warren at the hotel and act as her deputy, if affairs took her away from Brussels.

It was at the Hotel Edouard-Sept, the place where she had been born, that Rossiter met her when he arrived in Brussels after the Armistice.  She felt a little tremulous when his card was sent up to her, and kept him waiting quite five minutes while she saw that her hair was tidy and estimated before the glass the extent to which it had gone grey.  She had let it grow of late years—­the days of David Williams and Mr. Michaelis seemed very remote—­and spent some time and consideration in arranging it.  Her costume was workmanlike and that of an hotel manageress in the morning; yet distinctly set off her figure and suited her character of an able-bodied, intellectual woman.

* * * * *

“Vivie!”

“Michael!”

“My dear!  You’re handsomer than ever!”

“Michael!  Your khaki uniform becomes you; and I’m so glad you’ve got rid of that beard. Now we can see your well-shaped chin.  But still:  we mustn’t stand here, paying one another compliments, though this meeting is too wonderful:  I never thought I should see you again.  Let’s come to realities.  I suppose the real heart-felt question at the back of your mind is:  can I let you have a room?  I can, but not a bath-room suite; they’re all taken...”