I managed to get some work done to-day. Wrote a paragraph about the Ambulance for Mr. L., who will publish it in the Westminster under his name, to raise funds for us. He is more than ever certain that it (the Ambulance) is the real thing.
Also wrote an article ("L'Hôpital Militaire, No. 2") for the Daily Chronicle; the first bit of journalism I've had time or material for.
Shopped. Very triste affair.
Went to mass in the Cathedral. Sat far back among the refugees.
If you want to know what Religion really is, go into a Catholic church in a Catholic country under invasion. You only feel the tenderness, the naïveté of Catholicism in peace-time. In war-time you realize its power.
[Evening.]
Saw Mr. P., who has been at Termonde. He spoke with great praise of the gallantry of our Corps.
It's odd—either I'm getting used to it, or it's the effect of that run into Antwerp—but I'm no longer torn by fear and anxiety for their safety.
[?] Dined with Mr. L. in a restaurant in the town. It proved to be more expensive than either of us cared for. Our fried sole left us hungry and yet conscience-stricken, as if after an orgy, suffering in a dreadful communion of guilt.
[Wednesday, 7th.]