Each group is a miniature system of Imperial Federation. The City Volunteer talks to a Queensland Mounted Infantryman, who hands his matchbox to a private of the Line. A Bushman from New Zealand, a Cambridge undergraduate, and a tea-planter from Ceylon stroll up and make the conversation general. On every side all kinds of men are intermingled, united by the sympathy of a common purpose and soldered together in the fire of war. And this will be of great consequence later on. The inhabitants--bearded Burghers who have made their peace, townsfolk who never desired to make a quarrel--stand round and watch complacently. After all, there are worse things than to be defeated. Demand is keen, the army is wealthy, and prices are high. Trade has followed hard on the flag which waves from every building; and, whether it be for merchandise or farm produce, the market is buoyant. The officers congregate about the pretentious building of the club, and here I find acquaintances gathered together from all the sentry beats of the Empire, for the regular army usually works like a kaleidoscope, and, new combinations continually forming, scatter old friends in every direction. But here all are collected once more, and the man we met on the frontier, the man we met ’up the river,’ the man we met at manoeuvres with the comrade of Sandhurst, the friend or enemy of Harrow days, and the rival of a Meerut tournament, stand in a row together. Merry military music, laughing faces, bright, dainty little caps, a moving throng, and the consciousness that this means a victorious British Army in the capital of the Free State, drive away all shadows from the mind. One cannot see any gaps in the crowd; it is so full of animation that the spaces where Death has put his hand are not to be seen. The strong surges of life have swept across them as a sunny sea closes over the foundered ship. Yet they are not quite forgotten. ’Hullo, my dear old boy, I am glad to see you. When did you get up here? Have you brought ---- with you? Oh, I am sorry. It must have been a fever-stricken hole that Ladysmith. Poor chap! Do you remember how he .... Charlie has gone home. He can never play polo again--expanding bullet smashed his arm all to bits. Bad luck, wasn’t it? Now we’ve got to find a new back .... and ---- was killed at Paardeberg .... spoiled the whole team.’ The band struck into a lively tune. ’How long is it going to last?’ ’With luck it ought to be over by October, just a year from start to finish.’ ’I thought you said something about Pretoria the third week in March.’ ’Ah, I must have meant May, or, perhaps, June.’ ’Or August.’ ’Who can tell? But I think this is the half-way house.’