“Shame on you, Doctor,” said Fortune. “You are always jotting down notes about us. I shall find myself docketed as ‘English gentleman grade 3; full-blooded, inclined to obesity, humourous, strain of insanity due to in-breeding, rare.’” Dr. Small laughed in a high treble, and then was serious. “I’m noting down everything. My own psychology, which alarms me; facts, anecdotes, scenes, words. I want to find a law somewhere, the essential thing in human nature. After the war--if there is any afterwards--I want to search for a way out of the jungle. This jungle civilisation. There must be daylight somewhere for the human race.” “If you find it,” said Brand, earnestly, “tell me, Doctor.” “I will,” said Dr. Small, and I remembered that pledge afterwards, when he and Brand were together in a doomed city, trying to avert the doom, because of that impulse which urged them to find a little daylight beyond the darkness. Young Clatworthy jerked his chair on the polished boards and looked anxiously at the Colonel, who was discoursing on the origins of art, religion, sex, the perception of form. Colonel Lavington grinned at him. “All right, Cyril. I know you have got a rendezvous with some girl. Don’t let us keep you from your career of infamy.” “As a matter of fact, sir, I met a sweet little thing yesterday----” Clatworthy knew that his reputation as an amorist did not displease the Colonel, who was a romantic, and loved youth. In a gust of laughter the mess broke up. Charles Fortune and the Colonel prepared for an orgy of Bach over the piano in the drawing-room of that house in Lille. Those who cared to listen might--or not, as they pleased. Brand and I went out into the streets, pitch-dark now, unlit by any glimmer of gas, and made our way to the convent where the girl Eileen O’Connor lodged. We passed a number of British soldiers in the Boulevard de la Liberté, wearing their steel hats and carrying their packs. A group of them stopped under a doorway to light cigarettes. One of them spoke to his pals. “They tell me there’s some bonny wenches in this town.” “Ay,” said another, “an’ I could do wi’ some hugging in a cosy billet.” “Cosy billet!” said the third, with a cockney voice. “Town or trenches, the poor bloody soldier gets it in the neck. Curse this pack! I’m fed up with the whole damn show. I want Peace.” A hoarse laugh answered him. “Peace! You don’t believe that fool’s talk in the papers, chum? It’s a hell of a long way to the Rhine, and you and I’ll be dead before we get there.” They slouched off into the darkness, three points of light where their cigarettes glowed. “Poor lads!” said Brand. VIII