A bell clanged; she saw the glow of smoke and sparks; the train slid alongside the platform, stopped, began to disgorge its khaki. She had met that train so often; knew so exactly what to expect; but always before, she had watched the third-class carriages. Now, she had eyes only for the Pullman. Excitedly, she scrutinized the descending officers. . . . Last of them all, very calm, cigar-butt between his lips, coat-collar pulled up to the eyes, cane under his arm, came Peter. Obviously, he did not expect her. She let him saunter a yard or two along the platform; noticed the cleanliness of his boots, the sheen of his spurs. Then she touched him on the arm, said: “Taxi, sir?” He turned round; began to say something; recognized her; burst out, “Good God, Pat, what on earth are you doing here?” “Meeting lonely soldiers,” she laughed: and put up her lips to be kissed. He took her in his arms. . . . “But you ought to be in bed,” he protested, as they made way arm-in-arm along the crowded platform. “My dear, if I can drive Tommies home four nights a week, surely I can devote one to meeting my own husband. Have you had anything to eat?” “Rather. And a bath at Boulogne. And a cabin to myself on the boat. It’s quite a comfortable journey if only one knows the ropes. I say, what are these poor devils going to do?” He looked at the crowd of men, mud-stained, kit-loaded. “Sleep in the waiting-rooms till the trains start running.” He let go her arm; stood still. “Supposing I weren’t here,” he said, “what would you do?” “Oh, we usually try and find two or three who live fairly close, not more than five miles out. Then we drive them home.” Husband and wife looked at each other; then Peter said: “Damn it all, Pat. . . .” “As you like, dear,” she answered: but the heart grew heavy within her. She wanted him to herself, to herself: and he was away from her already, striding here and there among the men. “Any of you men live in London?” asked P.J. “Yes, sir. I do, sir. So do I, sir,” a dozen voices answered the question. “West London? Marylebone? Regent’s Park?” “Albany Street, sir.” A heavy-laden infantryman detached himself from the crowd; looked up expectantly. “Right. I’ll drive you home. Any one else live that way?” “My mate was coming ’ome with me. Could you take ’im too, sir?” asked the infantryman. “Very well. Hurry up, though.” Peter turned to the crowd; said: “Sorry you chaps. I can’t manage more than two. Merry Christmas to you all.” “Merry Christmas, sir,” answered a dozen voices. . . . “I’ve got a brace,” he told her, “and they both want to go to Albany Street. It’s hardly out of our way at all.”