So she absent-mindedly ate her kippered herring, which had been strongly
recommended by the waiter, and tried to think of what a spy would do, so
she might avoid any suspicious movements. It struck her, too, that war
seemed to have made the people on that side of the ocean extremely ready
with weapons. They would be quite likely to shoot first and ask
questions afterwards--which would be too late to be helpful.

She remembered Henri, for instance, and the way, without a word, he had
shot the donkey.

That day she wrote Harvey a letter.

"_Dearest_:" it began; "I think I am to leave for France to-night.
Things seem to be moving nicely, and I am being helped by the Belgian
Relief Commission. It is composed of Belgians and is at the Savoy
Hotel."


Here she stopped and cried a little. What if she should never see
Harvey again--never have his sturdy arms about her? Harvey gained by
distance. She remembered only his unfailing kindness and strength and
his love for her. He seemed, here at the edge of the whirlpool, a sort
of eddy of peace and quiet. Even then she had no thought of going back
until her work was done, but she did an unusual thing for her, unused
to demonstration of any sort. She kissed his ring.

Followed directions about sending the money from the church society,
a description of Morley's and Trafalgar Square, an account of tea at
the Travers', and of the little donkey--without mention, however, of
Henri. She felt that Harvey would not understand Henri.