The priests intoned before the altar, and the music took up the beautiful and impressive service, part of which dates back eight hundred years. High at one end a choir and orchestra were in a gallery, and joined the great organ in filling the vaults with lovely harmonies as the mass proceeded, while the scent of incense rose through the soft haze of the interior to the famous stained-glass windows above. The Queen sat beneath her canopy at the side of the high altar with her little court surrounding her, the diplomats in their full regalia were in a group at one side, the Ministers of State in their uniforms in a group at the other, with the judges of the court in their scarlet robes which made bright splashes of colour. The military music resounded in slow marches and re-echoed through the spaces where candles only dimly lighted the shadows. When they came out of church they noticed above them, floating in the sky, a great dirigible balloon, manoeuvering majestically over the city, silent and impressive. How little did they think that similar balloons would so soon be dropping bombs upon their peaceful country! That evening the Minister of Foreign Affairs gave a gala dinner in honour of the King's fête-day, and all the Chiefs of Mission and some of the court dignitaries attended. Madame Davignon, wife of the Minister, a handsome and distinguished woman, received with His Excellency. The gathering was impressive, and the diplomatic uniforms were rich with gold lace and decorations. Madame Davignon presided at this dinner of men only, the Minister sitting opposite her at the U-shaped table. Some plenipotentiaries were accredited to Paris as well as to Brussels, and came on for special functions. Although these were mostly South Americans, they were very fine in their regalia, as were also the Turks in their fezzes and the Persians in their astrakhan hats. After dinner there was a real "_recivimento_," when distinguished people came in to pay their respects to the Minister of Foreign Affairs without invitation, as used to be the custom in Rome. A few days after that L. made up a little party and ran out to Termeire, the de Buisseret château. The motor trip took about an hour and a half, the car running smoothly and swiftly between villages and jiggling over the famous Belgian blocks that pave the towns. The country was like France, with the ditches on either side of the road and the rows of trees, and like Holland, too, with its canals. About the château there was an extensive park with game, where they hunted in the autumn, and _étangs_ and bridges and fine old trees.[1] [1] The story of the de Buisseret misfortunes since the war began has been a sad one, like that of many of the Belgian aristocracy. Their château, which we visited so often, has been destroyed, Madame de Buisseret has died, and the children are scattered.