He spent his first morning wandering about London by himself. He was still amazed at the beauty of women, and was afraid they would be offended by his staring at them. Prostitutes twice spoke to him, offering him “Oriental attractions.” He saluted them, and passed on. The second girl muttered insults, which he scarcely heard. There seemed to be a great many more prostitutes in London. The street paving was badly worn, but looked marvelously smooth and kempt to Winterbourne, accustomed to roads worn into deep ruts and reft with shell-holes. He was charmed to see so many houses—all unbroken. And busses going up and down. And people carrying umbrellas—of course, people had umbrellas. There was Khaki everywhere. Every third man was a soldier. He passed some American marines, the advance guard of the great armies being prepared across the Atlantic. They had wide shoulders and narrow hips, strong-looking men; each of them had picked up a girl. They walked in London with the same proprietory swagger that the English used in France. A military policeman stopped and roughly asked him what he was doing. Winterbourne produced his pass. “Sorry, thought you was a deserter, old man. Don’t go out without yer pass.” The second night after his arrival Elizabeth took him to a Soho restaurant to dine with some of her friends. Fanny was not there, but the party included Mr. Upjohn, Mr. Waldo Tubbe and Reggie Burnside. There were several people Winterbourne had never met, including a man who had made a great hit by translating Armenian poetry from the French versions of Archag Tchobanian. He was extremely intellectual and weary in manner, and took Winterbourne’s hand in a very limp way, turning his head aside with an air of elegant contempt as he did so. Winterbourne sat very silent through the meal, nervously rolling bread pills. He was amazed to find how remote he felt, how completely he had nothing to say. They talked about various topics he didn’t quite follow, and titteringly gossiped about people he didn’t know. Elizabeth got on wonderfully, chattered with every one, laughed and was a great success. He felt very uncomfortable, like a death’s head at a feast. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the restaurant mirrors, and thought he looked ludicrously solemn and distressed. Over coffee they shifted seats, and one or two people came and talked to him. Mr. Upjohn dropped clumsily into the next chair, thrust out his chin, and coughed. “Are you back in London for good now?” “No. I’ve a fortnight’s leave, and then go to an Officer’s Training Corps.” “And then will you be in London?” “No, I shall have to go back to France again.” Mr. Upjohn irritably clucked his tongue—tch, tch! “I mildly supposed you’d finished soldiering. You look most grotesque in those clothes.” “Yes, but they’re practical, you know.” “What I mean to say is that the most important thing is that the processes of civilization shouldn’t be interrupted by all this war business.”