"And a good thing too," said the padre. "But I expect——" began the doctor. "Happy are those who expect nothing," said the padre, "for they shall not be disappointed." "What, you too, padre!" said the doctor. "Take care; if you ruin doctors by your malevolent remarks, I shall found a society for the exportation to the Colonies of mechanical idols and ovens for cooking missionaries." "That is an excellent idea," said the padre. "I must see about it." *CHAPTER XVIII* The brigade, kept in reserve for the division, was ordered to go and camp at H——. As a dentist measures the extent of a cavity at a glance, the men of the Lennox, expert in bombardments, cast a professional eye over the village. Round the château and the church it was done for: houses in ruins, pavements torn up, trees smashed. The weaving factory had been badly damaged. The rest was not so unhealthy, a little knocked about, perhaps, but habitable. The house where Colonel Bramble had established his Mess had already been hit by a shell. It had burst in the garden, breaking the window-panes and marking the walls. Madame, a dear little old lady, made light of these blemishes, which had depreciated her house in value. "Oh, just a shell, _monsieur l’officier_!" she said. "Quite a small shell; I put the base of it there on my mantelpiece. It’s nothing, as you can see. True, they make a mess of everything, but I am not afraid of them!" The colonel asked her how many windows had been broken. "I don’t like this house," said the padre, as they sat down to dinner. "The life of a soldier," replied the colonel, "is one of great hardship, not infrequently mingled with moments of real danger." "Be not dismayed, padre," said the doctor. "Shells fall like drops of water: if it rains much the whole pavement gets wet." "The Lennox Mess has always been lucky," said Major Parker. "Luck is nothing," said the doctor. "One can see you are not a gambler," remarked Aurelle. "One can see that you are not a mathematician," said the doctor. The padre expostulated: "What? Luck nothing? How about little Taylor, killed by a shell in Poperinghe Station at the very moment that he was arriving at the front for the first time! You don’t call that bad luck?" "Not more than if an old habitué like me was wiped out by a whizz-bang, padre. You are astonished at Taylor being killed the first minute, just as you would be surprised if, in a lottery of a million tickets, Number One should win, although that number had obviously as much chance as, say, 327,645. Someone must be the last man killed in this war, but you will see that his family will not think it ordinary."