The sight of the hotel flower-stall recessed on the left reminded G.J. of Christine’s desire.  Forty thousand skilled women had been put out of work in England because luxury was scared by the sudden vista of war, but the black-garbed girl, entrenched in her mahogany bower, was still earning some sort of a livelihood.  In a moment, wakened out of her terrible boredom into an alert smile, she had sold to G.J. a bunch of expensive chrysanthemums whose yellow petals were like long curly locks.  Thoughtless, he had meant to have the flowers delivered at once to Christine’s flat.  It would not do; it would be indiscreet.  And somehow, in the absence of Braiding, it would be equally indiscreet to have them delivered at his own flat.

“I shall be leaving the hotel in about an hour; I’ll take them away myself then,” he said, and inquired for the headquarters of the Lechford French Hospitals Committee.

“Committee?” repeated the girl vaguely.  “I expect the Onyx Hall’s what you want.”  She pointed up a corridor, and gave change.

G.J. discovered the Onyx Hall, which had its own entrance from the street, and which in other days had been a cafe lounge.  The precious pavement was now half hidden by wooden trestles, wooden cubicles, and cheap chairs.  Temporary flexes brought down electric light from a stained glass dome to illuminate card-indexes and pigeon-holes and piles of letters.  Notices in French and Flemish were suspended from the ornate onyx pilasters.  Old countrywomen and children in rough foreign clothes, smart officers in strange uniforms, privates in shabby blue, gentlemen in morning coats and spats, and untidy Englishwomen with eyes romantic, hard, or wistful, were mixed together in the Onyx Hall, where there was no enchantment and little order, save that good French seemed to be regularly spoken on one side of the trestles and regularly assassinated on the other.  G.J., mystified, caught the grey eye of a youngish woman with a tired and fretful expression.

“And you?” she inquired perfunctorily.

He demanded, with hesitation: 

“Is this the Lechford Committee?”

“The what Committee?”

“The Lechford Committee headquarters.”  He thought she might be rather an attractive little thing at, say, an evening party.

She gave him a sardonic look and answered, not rudely, but with large tolerance: 

“Can’t you read?”

By means of gesture scarcely perceptible she directed his attention to an immense linen sign stretched across the back of the big room, and he saw that he was in the ant-heap of some Belgian Committee.

“So sorry to have troubled you!” he apologised.  “I suppose you don’t happen to know where the Lechford Committee sits?”

“Never heard of it,” said she with cheerful disdain.  Then she smiled and he smiled.  “You know, the hotel simply hums with committees, but this is the biggest by a long way.  They can’t let their rooms, so it costs them nothing to lend them for patriotic purposes.”