But as yet—though nominally attached to another Brigade for “training in trench-warfare”—Stark and his two batteries were nobody’s children. No infantry asked them for retaliation; no General panicked round their ammunition-dumps. And they were too far behind the trenches to attract hostile shell-fire. “So far”—as Peter explained to his cousin, in the draggled garden—“a picnic!” “You wait till September the twenty-fifth!” said Francis. “Oh, is that the date?” “Didn’t you know? Why every housemaid in Béthune can tell you that much.” It was then September the eleventh! The two cousins passed into the Mess-room. M. de Morency, a tall French interpreter, black-moustachioed, the bronze sphinx of his calling on the lapel of his khaki tunic, had arrived the day before; stood superintending the lighting of the lamp, Bombardier Michael’s arrangement of the dinner-table. Peter introduced his cousin, and the two began a voluble conversation in slangy French. Stark stamped down from his upstairs bed-room; Purves and the Doctor arrived together. “Lodden and Torrington are late.” The Weasel looked at his watch. “Phone down for them, will you, Purves?” The Balliol man stepped to a tiny, black telephone on a shelf in the corner, began buzzing on the key. “Is that you, Beer Battery. . . . Oh, is Captain Torrington there? Just left for H.Q.—with Major Lodden. Thanks.” Shortly afterwards, the two arrived; and dinner began with “Gong” soups served in enamel mugs. Followed tinned salmon, mayonnaise sauce and lettuce salad prepared by Caroline, a large ration joint of beef, baked potatoes, rice-pudding. They drank sparingly, from newly-bought glasses, of white wine. Talk ran steadily on the forthcoming operations. “I hear we shall use gas for the first time,” announced the interpreter. “And a damned mess we shall probably make of it.” Lodden wiped black moustaches contemptuously with his paper napkin. “Don’t you think so, Gordon?” “I’m afraid I don’t know much about actual warfare,” remarked Francis, “you see I’m on the Staff.” Everybody laughed. Said Colonel Stark: “If you ex-civilians had been willing to pay for a decent-sized Army in peace-time, you might have had officers capable of managing large bodies of troops in war.” “Then you admit, Colonel” . . . began Lodden. “My dear Major, I admit nothing. Let’s have some port. Any coffee, Morency?” “_Mais oui, mon Colonel._” Peter produced a newly arrived box of cigars; the bare room soon grew hazy with smoke. The gaffer and Caroline, dragging a scrofulous boy by the hand, dived down through the timbered doorway to their bedroom in the cellars. Outside, it was very still—only, every now and then, a gun boomed faintly. Torrington had drawn his chair towards the two cousins; Purves joined them, and Morency. Stark, Lodden and the Doctor kept to the head of the table. “Damn good fighter, the Boche,” remarked Torrington, _á propos_ of nothing in particular.