He sent her a letter from Malta, a very long letter crossed and recrossed. Evidently time had hung heavy on hand once the wonders of being on a steamship had passed. "It will revolutionise war," he wrote, "if we can rely on getting reinforcements regularly. It was different when we had to count on hurricanes and doldrums." And he had a quick eye for weak points in the armour. "Here we are after eleven days' hard steam, and here, so far as any one knows, we are likely to remain. Nothing seems to have been arranged for a forward movement; neither has any provision been made for the hunger of fifteen thousand troops plumped down on a practically desert island. However, they say a cattle transport is immediately expected from Alexandria, so we should have enough beef. Meanwhile, the recent order that neither officers nor men should appear out of uniform gives colour and variety to the streets of Valetta; notably when they are tramped by Yours affectionately." It was not till late in April that he could send her his impressions of Gallipoli. "Take the dilapidated out-houses of a real old English farmyard, add to them every seedy, cracked, ricketty, wooden structure to be found in our slums, with a sprinkling of Thames-side huts, and tumble them all down higgledy-piggledy on a bare round hill sloping to the sea, scatter about a few slender white minarets, and you have the town--a place without shade, without water, without food. We can, of course, do the Kilkenny cat trick, but is it not astounding, is it not incredible, that such mistakes should be made? However, an enterprising entrepreneur from Smyrna (Jew, of course) is transforming a battered old ruin into a 'Restaurant de l'Armée Auxiliare' as the legend runs, done with a thumb in lamp-black!" Already "considerable difference of opinion" existed as to the choice of Gallipoli as the headquarters of the army, and the mere watering "of thirty-five thousand troops" presented difficulty. And always and always came the same refrain of chafed patience at being enmeshed in the mistakes of others. "The stores sent for the commissariat are beneath contempt. I let out at the quartermaster for the filthy stuff he was serving out, and he assured me it was the best he could get. Conningsby of the Hussars tells me half the bales of hay sent out as forage have centres of wood shavings. Why isn't someone hanged?" Marrion Paul, as she read these two effusions, felt vaguely that the gilt was wearing off the gingerbread. The man's buoyant hopes were being dashed by the ineptitude of those above him. It was a pity, for she knew, none better, that underneath all his boyish lightheartedness Marmaduke Muir had the knack of making men obey him and follow him. She pictured him leading his regiment into fight and she could see it, mastered, dominated, held in hand by that cheerful voice, that merry face.