Outside they crossed the square, plunging into the five o'clock traffic vortex below Ludgate Circus, walked a short way and then turned into a narrow entry. Through a couple of swing doors they found a hall, whose walls were plastered with notices, and then a lounge with small tables. A few men nodded to Phipps, the diminutive waiter smiled as on an old friend when taking the order for tea. Now for the first time John was able to look critically at his new friend. It was a face and head of arresting dignity, beauty almost. Of small build, he was a slim, compact man of about thirty-five with a boyish expression. He was pale, his eyes a steely grey, very intense, with points of light in the pupils, glowing and alive in contrast to the general pallor of the brow. His hair was short and slightly wavy, the nose arched and Roman. It was a chiselled face, that of a man of thought, into whose lines had passed the experience of emotion, suffering perhaps. It was, in a curious way, a face, ascetic and carven, that suggested sorrow, sprung from contemplation rather than life's trials. And the voice was in accordance with this impression, for it was deep, with notes of rich melancholy, the voice of a great preacher. To John, he seemed much as he would have expected to find one of the knights of the Round Table, a strong, handsome personality--yet human, and sensitive to the beauty of life as well as its ugliness. There was a quick nervousness in the shape and movement of the hands, the right fingers being stained with nicotine, for he was an incessant smoker of cigarettes. In his talk he had a sense of humour which seemed to belie the seriousness of his expression, but that may have been due to his subject, for John had got him to talk of his famous adventure at a Grand Duke's wedding when he had figured as a foreign statesman and given Fleet Street an "inside" story that kept it talking for twenty-four hours--a long time for Fleet Street to discuss any subject. Then he told John something of his experiences as a war correspondent in the Balkan War. "A bloody, horrible business. I can hardly forgive the folly of men, Dean. There are people here talking about our next war--with Germany. What insanity--and what wickedness! If only they had seen and not read about war. I don't think there's any war worth fighting." "Not for honour?" "Were they ever fought for that?" Phipps looked at him piercingly. "I suppose not," assented John. "And in future, there'll be no war worth winning," he said in his deep voice. "The price of the effort will out-value the prize. Well, if another war comes along, thank heaven I shall be too old for sending telegrams to the British Public about its picturesque bloodiness."