I drew what comfort I could from the sight of the continually passing troops; a platoon off to musketry training; a battalion, brown and dusty, on a route march with full equipment, whistling “Tipperary”; sections of an Army Service train cursing good-humouredly at their mules; a battery of artillery thundering along at a clean, rhythmical trot which, considering what they were like in their slovenly jogging and bumping three months ago, afforded me prodigious pleasure.  On the passing of these last-mentioned I felt inclined to clap my hands and generally proclaim my appreciation.  Indeed, I did arrest a fresh-faced subaltern bringing up the rear of the battery who, having acquaintance with me, saluted, and I shouted: 

“They’re magnificent!”

He reared up his horse and flushed with pleasure.

“We’ve done our best, sir,” said he.  “We had news last week that we should be sent out quite soon, and that has bucked them up enormously.”

He saluted again and rode off, and my heart went with him.  What a joy it would be to clatter down a road once again with the guns!

And other people passed.  Townsfolk who gave me a kindly “Morning, Major!” and went on, and others who paused awhile and gave me the gossip of the day.  And presently young Randall Holmes went by on a motor bicycle.  He caught sight of me, disappeared, and then suddenly reappeared, wheeling his machine.  He rested it by the kerb of the sidewalk and approached the railings.  He was within a yard of me.

“Would you let me speak to you for half a minute, Major?”

“Certainly,” said I.  “Come in.”

He swung through the gate and crossed the lawn.

“You said very hard things to me some time ago.”

“I did,” said I, “and I don’t think they were undeserved.”

“Up to a certain point I agree with you,” he replied.

He looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit. 
Why should he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this
May morning when he ought to be in France?

“I wish you agreed with me all along the line,” said I.

He found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side.

“I don’t want to enter into controversial questions,” he said.

Confound him!  He might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty.  Controversial questions!  His assured young Oxford voice irritated me.

“What do you want to enter into?” I asked.

“A question of honour,” he answered calmly.  “I have been wanting to speak to you, but I didn’t like to.  Passing you by, just now, I made a sudden resolution.  You have thought badly of me on account of my attitude towards Phyllis Gedge.  I want to tell you that you were quite right.  My attitude was illogical and absurd.”

“You have discovered,” said I, “that she is not the inspiration you thought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let her alone.”