It was three weeks after Desmond's death.

Pamela was sitting in the 'den' writing a letter to Arthur Chicksands at Versailles.

The first onslaught on Amiens was over.

The struggle between Bethune and Ypres was in full swing.
'DEAREST--This house is so strange--the world is so strange! Oh, if I hadn't my work to do!--how could one bear it?
It seems wrong and hateful even, to let one's mind dwell on the wonderful, wonderful thing, that you love me! The British Army retreating--_retreating_--after these glorious years--that is what burns into me hour after hour! Thank God Desmond didn't know! And if I feel like this, who am just an ignorant, inexperienced girl, what must it be for you who are working there, at the very centre, the news streaming in on you all the time ?--you who know how much there is to fear--but also how much there is to be certain of--to be confident of--that we can't know.

Our splendid, _splendid_ men! Every day I watch for the names I know in the death list--and some of them seem to be always there.