Here she ate her lunch.
The rain had ceased and a little pale sunshine cheered the cottages, the
henless, dogless, empty road. A valiant bird sang on a hedge beside her.
With her wire-cutters she opened the tin of potted meat, and with their
handle spread it on the bread.
"Lord, how lonely it is--surely some door might open, some face look
out--" At that a little gust of wind got up, and she jumped in her seat,
for a front door slammed and blew back again.
"I couldn't stay here the night--" with a shiver--and the bird on the
branch sang louder than ever. "It's all very well," she addressed him.
"You're with your own civilisation. I'm right _out_ of mine!"
The day wore on. The white sun, having finished climbing one side of the
sky, came down upon the other.
Here and there a man hailed her, and she gave him a lift to his village,
talked a little to him, and set him down.
A young Belgian, who had learned his English at Eton, was her companion
for half an hour.
"And you are with the French?" he asked. "How do you like the fellows?"
"I like them very much. I like them enormously." (Strange question,
when all France meant Julien!)
"Don't you find they think there is no one else in the world?" he
grumbled. "It is a delicious theory for them, and it must be amusing to
be French!"
"Little Belgium--jealous young sister, resentful of the charm of the
elder woman of the world!"
A French lieutenant climbed to the seat beside her.
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