But the fever is rising now.

The wounded are coming back, the dead are mourned, and the agony of hearing only that such-and-such a man is missing--these are having a prodigious effect.

The men I meet now say in a matter-of-fact way: "Oh, yes! we'll get 'em, of course; the only question is, how long it will take us and how many of us it will cost.

But no matter, we'll get 'em." Old ladies and gentlemen of the high, titled world now begin by driving to my house almost every morning while I am at breakfast.
With many apologies for calling so soon and with the fear that they interrupt me, they ask if I can make an inquiry in Germany for "my son," or "my nephew"-- "he's among the missing." They never weep; their voices do not falter; they are brave and proud and self-restrained.

It seems a sort of matter-of-course to them.
Sometimes when they get home, they write me polite notes thanking me for receiving them.