For a long while Vane sat on, staring at the fire. Though only early in October, the night was chilly, and he stretched his legs gratefully to the blaze. After a time he got up and fetched an evening paper. The great push between Cambrai and St. Quentin was going well; behind Ypres the Boche was everywhere on the run. But to Vane gigantic captures in men and guns meant a very different picture. He saw just the one man crawling on his belly through the mouldering bricks and stinking shell-holes of some death-haunted village. He saw the sudden pause--the tense silence as the man stopped motionless, listening with every nerve alert. He felt once again the hideous certainty that he was not alone; that close to, holding his breath, was someone else . . . then he saw the man turn like a flash and stab viciously; he heard the clatter of falling bricks--the sob of exultation as the Boche writhed in his death agony. . . . And it might have been the other way round. Then he saw the other side; the long weary hours of waiting, the filthy weariness of it all--the death and desolation. Endured without a murmur; sticking it always, merry, cheerful, bright--so that the glory of the British soldier should be written on the scroll of the immortals for all eternity. Was it all to be wasted, thrown away? His jaw set at the thought. Surely--surely that could never be. Let 'em have their League of Nations by all manner of means; but a League of Britain was what these men were fighting for. And to every Britisher who is a Britisher--may God be praised there are millions for whom patriotism has a real meaning--that second League is the only one that counts. The door opened and Vallance, the Adjutant, came in. "There's a letter for you, old boy, outside in the rack," he remarked. He walked over to the fire to warm his hands. "Bring me a large whisky and a small soda," he said to the waiter, who answered his ring. "Drink, Vane?" Vane looked up from the envelope he was holding in his hand and shook his head. "No, thanks, old man," he answered. "Not just now. . . . I think I'll read this letter first." And the Adjutant, who was by nature an unimaginative man, failed to notice that Vane's voice was shaking a little with suppressed excitement. It was ten minutes before either of them spoke again. Twice Vane had read the letter through, and then he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. "Contrary to all service etiquette, old boy," he said, "I am going to approach you on the subject of leave in the mess. I want two or three days. Can it be done?" Vallance put down his paper, and looked at him. "Urgent private affairs?" he asked lightly. "Very urgent," returned Vane grimly. "I should think it might be managed," he said. "Fire in an application and I'll put it up to-morrow." "Thanks," said Vane briefly, "I will."