I have heard, too, of my old friend Sir Marcus, leaner than ever and clad in ill-fitting khaki, and sitting in a dreary office in Havre with piles of browny-yellow army forms before him, on which he had checked packing-cases of bully-beef ever since the war began. And if you visit a certain hospital--in Manchester of all places, so dislocating has been the war--there you will still see Lady Ordeyne (it always gives me a shock to think of Carlotta as Lady Ordeyne) matronly and inefficient, but the joy and delight of every wounded man. And Septimus? Did you not know that the Dix gun was used at the front? His great new invention, the aero-tank, I regret to say, was looked on coldly by the War Office. Now that Peace has come he is trying, so Brigadier-General Sir Clem Sypher tells me, to adapt it to the intensive cultivation of whitebait. And I have heard a few stories of others. Here is one told me by a French officer, one Colonel Girault. The scene was a road bridge on the outskirts of the zone of the armies. His car had broken down hopelessly, and with much profane language he swung to the bridge-head. The sentry saluted. He was an elderly Territorial with a ragged pair of canvas trousers and a ragged old blue uniform coat and a battered kepi and an ancient rifle. A scarecrow of a sentry, such as were seen on all the roads of France. "How far is it to the village?" "Two kilometres, _mon Colonel_." There was something familiar in the voice and in the dark, humorous eyes. "Say, _mon vieux_, what is your name?" asked Colonel Girault. "Gaston de Nérac, _mon Colonel_." "_Connais pas_," murmured the Colonel, turning away. "Exalted rank makes Gigi Girault forget the lessons of humility he learned in the Café Delphine." Colonel Girault stood with mouth agape. Then he laughed and threw himself into the arms of the dilapidated sentry. "_Mon Dieu_! It is true. It is Paragot!" Then afterwards: "And what can I do for you, _mon vieux_?" "Nothing," said Paragot. "The _bon Dieu_ has done everything. He has allowed me to be a soldier of France in my old age." And Colonel Girault told me that he asked for news of the little Asticot--a painter who ought by now to be famous. Paragot replied: "He is over there, killing Boches for his old master." Do you remember Paul Savelli, the Fortunate Youth? He lived to see his dream of a great, awakened England come true. He fell leading his men on a glorious day. His Princess wears on her nurse's uniform the Victoria Cross which he had earned in that last heroic charge, but did not live to wear. And she walks serene and gracious, teaching proud women how to mourn.