“We had been talking, three minutes before, about his next leave. He had been married in ’16, after the Somme, and hadn’t seen his wife since. Said her letters made him ‘uneasy.’ Thought she was drinking, because of the loneliness. Well, there he was--finished--and a nasty sight. I went off to the P.O.W. cage, and examined the beggars--one of them, as usual, had been a waiter at the Cecil, and said ‘How’s dear old London?’--and passed the time of day with Bob Mellett. You know--the one-armed lad. He laughed no end when he heard of my narrow squeak. So did I--though it’s hard to see the joke. He lent me his car on the way back, and somewhere outside Courtrai we bumped over a dead body, with a queer soft squelch. It was a German--a young ’un--and Bob Mellett said, ‘_He_ won’t be home for Christmas!’ Do you know Bob?--he used to cry at school when a rat was caught. Queer, isn’t it? Now here I am, sitting at a white table-cloth, listening to the Colonel’s talk, and pretending to be interested. I’m not a bit, really. I’m wondering why that bit of shell hit Saunders and not me. Or why I’m not lying in a muddy road as a bit of soft squelch for staff-cars to bump over. And on top of that I’m wondering how it will feel to hang up a bowler hat again in a house at Wimbledon, and say ‘Cheerio, Mother!’ to the mater (who will be knitting in the same arm-chair--chintz-covered--by the piano) and read the evening paper until dinner’s ready, take Ethel to a local dance, and get back into the old rut of home life in a nice family, don’t you know? With all my memories. With the ghosts of _this_ life crowding up. Ugly ghosts, some of ’em! Dirty ghosts!... It’s inconceivable that we can ever go back to the funny old humdrum! I’m not sure that I want to.” “You’re hipped,” I told him. “You’ll be glad to get back all right. Wimbledon will be Paradise after what you’ve been through.” “Oh, Lord, _I’ve_ done nothing,” said the boy. “Fact is, I’ve been talking tripe. Forget it.” But I did not forget, and remembered every word later, when I heard his laughter, on Armistice night. A despatch-rider stood outside the door in his muddy overalls, and Brand went to get his message. It was from Pierre Nesle. “I am mad with joy that you have found Marthe! Alas, I cannot get back for a week. Tell her that I am still her devoted comrade and loving brother. Pierre.” Brand handed me the slip and said, “Poor devil!” I went back to my billet in Madame Chéri’s house, and she made no allusion to our conversation in the afternoon, but was anxious, I thought, to assure me of her friendship by special little courtesies, as when she lighted my candle and carried it upstairs before saying Good night. Hélène was learning English fast and furiously, and with her arms round her mother’s waist, said, “Sleep well, sir, and very good dreams to you!” which I imagine was a sentence out of her text-book. XV