The rolls, the long French kind, were brought each morning in “Flossie,” by the day staff on their way up from the “shop” referred to in a F.A.N.Y. alphabet as

     “R’s for the ‘Roll-call’”—­a terrible fag—­
     “Fetching six yards of bread, done up in a bag!”

The other meals were provided by the Belgians and supplemented to a great extent by us.  I am quite convinced we often ate good old horse.  One day, when prowling round the shops to get something fresh for the night staff’s supper, I went into a butcher’s.  The good lady came forward to ask me what I wished.  I told her; and she smiled agreeably, saying, “Impossible, Mademoiselle, since long time we have only horse here for sale!” I got out of that shop with speed.

The orderlies on night duty, on the surgical side, were a lazy lot and slept the whole night through, more often than not on the floor of the kitchen.  One night the incomparable “Jefke,” who was worse than most, was fast asleep in a dark spot near the big stove, when I went to get some hot water.  He was practically invisible, so I narrowly missed stepping on his head, and, as it was, collapsed over him, breaking the tea-pot.  Cicely, the ever witty, quickly parodied one of the “Ruthless Rhymes,” and said:—­

     “Pat who trod on Jefke’s face
      (He was fast asleep, so let her,)
      Put the pieces back in place,
      Saying, ’Don’t you think he looks much better’?”

(I can’t vouch for the truth of the last line.)

One day when up at the front we attended part of a concert given by the Observation Balloon Section in a barn, candles stuck in bottles the only illuminations; we were however obliged to leave early to go on to the trenches.  Outside in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, we found the men busy sharpening their bayonets.

Another day up at Bourbourg, where we had gone for a ride, on a precious afternoon off, we saw the first camouflaged field hospital run by Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland, for the Belgians—­the tents were weird and wonderful to behold, and certainly defied detection from a distance.

Heasy and I were walking down the Rue one afternoon, which was the Bond Street of this town, when the private detective aforementioned came up and asked to see our identification cards.  These we were always supposed to carry about with us wherever we went.  Besides the hospital stamp and several others, it contained a passport photo and signature.  Of course we had left them in another pocket, and in spite of protestations on our part we were requested to proceed to the citadel or return to hospital to be identified.  To our mortification we were followed at a few yards by the detective and a soldier!  Never have I felt such an inclination to take to my heels.  As luck would have it, tea was in progress in the top room, and they all came down en masse to see the two “spies.”  The only comfort we got, as they all talked and laughed at our expense, was to hear one of the detectives softly murmuring to himself, “Has anyone heard of the Suffragette movement here?”