He seemed to have a vision of hope. “There are lots of good fellows in the world. Wickham Brand is one of ’em. Charles Fortune is another. One finds them everywhere on your side and mine. Surely we can get together when peace comes, and make a better system, somehow.” “Not easy, Doctor.” He laughed at me. “I hate your pessimism!... We must get a message to Pierre Nesle.... Good night, sonny!” On the way back to my billet I passed young Clatworthy. He was too engrossed to see me, having his arm round a girl who was standing with him under an unlighted lamp-post. She was looking up into his face on which the moonlight shone--a pretty creature, I thought. “_Je t’adore!_” she murmured as I passed quite close; and Clatworthy kissed her. I knew the boy’s mother and sisters, and wondered what they would think of him if they saw him now with this little street-walker. To them Cyril was a white knight _sans peur et sans reproche_. The war had not improved him. He was no longer the healthy lad who had been captain of his school, with all his ambition in sport, as I had known him five years before. Sometimes, in spite of his swagger and gallantry, I saw something sinister in his face, the look of a soiled soul. Poor kid! He too would have his excuse for all things: “_C’est la guerre!_” XII It was five o’clock on the following evening that I saw the girl Marthe again. The Doctor and I had arranged to go round to her lodging after dinner, by which time we hoped to have a letter for her from Pierre, by despatch-rider. But Brand was with me in the afternoon, having looked in to my billet with an English conversation-book for Hélène, who was anxious to study our way of speech. Madame Chéri insisted upon giving him a glass of wine, and we stood talking in her drawing-room awhile about the certain hope of victory, and then trivial things. Hélène was delighted with her book and Brand had a merry five minutes with her, teaching her to pronounce the words. “_C’est effroyable!_” cried Hélène. “‘Through’ ... ‘Tough’ ... ‘Cough’ ... _Mon Dieu, comme c’est difficile!_ There is no rule in your tongue.” Madame Chéri spoke of Edouard, her eldest boy, who had disappeared into the great silence, and gave me a photograph of him, in case I should meet him in our advance towards the Rhine. She kissed the photograph before giving it to me, and said a few words which revealed her strong character, her passionate patriotism. “If he had been four years older he would have been a soldier of France. I should have been happy if he could have fought for his country, and died for it, like my husband.” Brand and I left the house and went up towards the Grande Place. I was telling him about Pierre Nesle’s sister and our strange meeting with her the night before.