The Saturday afternoon in December, yellow and dull under the bitter black frost which has gripped the heart of the land, as the ill news has gripped the heart of the people, which comes to round off a week whose despatches have announced the disasters of Stormberg, Maghersfontein, Tugela, the threefold defeat on hill and plain and river--is no day for cheerful leave-taking. Although every lip is silent on the subject of the morning's news, latest and worst of all; although the spoken word is all of a brilliant campaign, a stroke of luck, a speedy and safe return, there looms before each mind the coming list of casualties, the thought of war's inevitable chances, the possibility that here and now are some who may never be seen again firm-footed on a metropolitan causeway, whose trick of a smile, twist of a moustache, and cock of hat upon forehead must become a slowly dimming memory through the remnants of a life. * * * * * The fire blazes against the frosty draught in the hall of the Southampton Hotel. Baggage is piled upon baggage half-ceiling high in every corner. Hungry men are hurriedly moving along the corridors towards the dining-room, in their travelling suits of tweed or serge. At two or three tables family parties are dining together for the last time; the women silent, quiet-eyed, smiling but momentarily at the sally of light-hearted youth, a sigh ever held in suspense behind kind lips and white teeth. The writing-room holds a group of scrawling men, finishing final letters, re-iterant of parting phrases, enforcing last injunctions, expressing forgotten behests. And at the foot of the stairs stand two officers in uniform, both in peaked caps, one military, one naval, with white bands upon their sleeves. They are the Embarking Staff Officers; they are the first visible sign of war. * * * * * Grey fog upon the waters, grey fog hanging round the sheds upon the wharves, a grey transport with red funnels, towering above the levels of water and quay. Cranes rapidly sling guns, wagons, cases, with creak, shout and thud over the grey bulwarks. Lines of uncouth figures in grey great-coats, and blue red-banded sea-caps, pass sight-protected rifles from hand to hand up the steep gangways and along between rows of boxes and baggage to the armoury. The saloon is filled with lunching officers, their friends and relatives. The last toast is lifted in silence to the last lips; and eyes looking over brim of wine-glass are eloquent of more than speech is master of. The harsh clang of the warning bell, speaking full-voiced the words of Destiny, transfers to the grey quay groups of dispirited, saddened women, and of men stern-eyed and holding between their teeth and under the cover of moustache or beard, minute bleeding portions of their inner lips.