Richards himself, with Donaldson and the sergeant-major, had been over the trenches the day before. It is not usual for all the officers of a relieving company to see the ground for themselves; but this was a piece of line quite new to the Home Counties' Territorial Division, of which the Middlesex Fusiliers' Brigade formed part. The authorities therefore had deemed it advisable to use even more care than usual. It was bitterly cold. The Great Frost of January and February, 1917--the coldest spring that France had known for a period of years variously estimated at twenty-one, a hundred and eight, and intermediately--was still in being. Richards turned up the collar of his British warm and longed for soup. He was just considering the advisability of shouting to the servants to serve his dinner at once, when there came a trampling on the stairs, a metallic clang, and some picturesque cursing. A moment later, Denis Allen emerged from the gloom, followed by little Shaw. "Thank God for my tin hat," said Denis piously. "That's about the only thing it's good for. I'd have brained myself long ago on these stairs without it." He divested himself of the article in question, as also of his equipment, glasses and trench coat; these he piled upon the recumbent form of Donaldson, bringing that warrior to a sudden and profane wakefulness. "Here," said Allen to Shaw, "we have the company commander sitting at home in luxurious idleness, while we poor blighters do his work for him outside in the cold. If you've drunk all the whisky, Dickie, there's going to be a mutiny. I'm simply perishing. Where's the dinner?" "Here, sir," said Private Corder, the senior servant, entering with the soup. "Bless you, Corder. May your shadow never grow less." "No, sir. Please, sir, Private 'Iggins wants to see you, sir." "Me?" said Richards. "Oh, yes, of course. Send him down in a minute, but give me time to finish the soup first." He warmed his fingers round the steaming mug. "Well, Denis," he went on. "How did you like the front trenches?" "Fine. Best lot I've seen. Top-hole duck-boards, good dug-outs, quiet bit of line. Couldn't be better, except for the cold. Shaw here was most impressed, and said he'd like to have shown his mother round them." Second-Lieutenant Shaw grinned. "Well, she gets the wind up rather, you see," he explained. "I think she imagines the front line with a perpetual barrage playing on it like a garden hose. I must say I didn't expect to see it _quite_ so peaceful myself. Or so clean and tidy." "Ah, that's the frost. I tell you, we've been grousing enough lately about being here for the hardest frost within memory, but you've got to remember that it does keep the water frozen up in the trench walls. Let's pray the frost doesn't break while we're in the line." Allen looked suddenly grave.