"But why?"
"C'est la guerre!"
"Comment!"
"C'est la guerre, Madame!"
That was the answer one received to all one's queries in those days.
If you asked why the post had not come, or why the boat did not sail for England, or why your coffee was cold, or why your boots were not cleaned, or why your window was shut, or why the canary didn't sing,—you would always be sure to be told, "c'est la guerre!"
Next morning, however, the train condescended to start, and three hours after its proper time we steamed away from Ostend.
Slowly, painfully, through the hot summer day, our long, brown train went creeping towards Anvers!
Anvers!
The very name had grown into an emblem of hope in those sad days, when the Belgians were fleeing for their lives towards the safety of their great fortified city on the Scheldt.