of French and British, the preliminary success of their great offensive in March and April when masses of English prisoners were herded through Lille, dejected, exhausted, hardly able to drag their feet along between their sullen guards--by Heaven, these people of Lille had needed much faith to save them from despair. No wonder now, that on the first day of liberation, some of them were wet-eyed with joy, and others were lightheaded with liberty. In the Grande Place below the old balustraded Town Hall I saw young Cyril Clatworthy, one of the Intelligence crowd, surrounded by a group of girls who were stroking his tunic, clasping his hands, pushing each other laughingly to get nearer to him. He was in lively conversation with the prettiest girl whom he kept in front of him. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself as the central figure of this hero-worship, and as I passed the boy (twenty-four that birthday, he had told me a month before), I marvelled at his ceaseless capacity for amorous adventure, with or without a moment’s notice. A pretty girl, if possible, or a plain one if not, drew him like a magnet, excited all his boyish egotism, called to the faun-spirit that played the pipes of Pan in his heart. It was an amusing game for him with his curly brown hair and Midshipman Easy type of face. For the French girls whom he had met on his way--little Marcelle on Cassel Hill, Christine at Corbie on the Somme, Marguérite in the hat-shop at Amiens (what became of her, poor kid?), it was not so amusing when he “blew away,” as he called it, and had a look at life elsewhere. He winked at me, as I passed, over the heads of the girls. “The fruits of victory!” he called out. “There is a little Miss Brown-Eyes here who is quite enchanting.” It was rather caddish of me to say: “Have you forgotten Marguérite Aubigny?” He thought so too, and reddened, angrily. “Go to blazes!” he said.