But I didn't count on private, personal
emotions--unless we blundered into an air raid somewhere!
You remember those authors we met once, who write together--the
Sandersons--and how they said if they ever dared put a real incident in
a book, people picked out that one as impossible? Well, this evening
just past reminded me of the Sandersons. We spent it at the War
Correspondents' Chateau, not far out of Compiegne: that is, we spent it
there if it was _real_, and not a dream.
* * * * *
I am the only one in Mother Beckett's confidence--I mean, about her
health. Even her husband doesn't know how this trip strains her
endurance, physical and mental. Indeed, he's the very one who _mustn't_
know. It's agreed between us that, if she feels hopelessly unfit for
any excursion, _I_ shall put on invalid airs and she will stop at home
to keep me company. Thus will be avoided all danger of Father Beckett
suspecting the weakness she hides. But you can imagine, Padre, knowing
me as you do, how frightened I was to-day--our morning for Noyon--lest
she should give the signal. I felt I simply couldn't _bear_ to miss
Noyon. No use telling myself I shall feel exactly the same about
Soissons to-morrow, and Roye and Ham and Chauny and various others the
day after. My reason couldn't detach itself at that instant from Noyon.
Our daily programme as now arranged is: Me to knock at Mother Beckett's
door half an hour before starting-time.
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