Outside, the General walked some distance before he found a taxi.  He walked fast for a man of his age, and ruminated as he went.  It was his way, and the way of his kind.  Most of the modern sciences left him unmoved, and although he would vehemently have denied it, he was the most illogical of men.  He held fast by a few good, sound, old-fashioned principles, and the process of thought, to him, meant turning over a new thing until he had got it into line with these principles.  It was an excellent method as far as it went, and it made him what he was—­a thoroughly sound and dependable servant of the State in any routine business.

At the War Office he climbed more slowly up the steps and into the lobby.  An officer was just coming out, and they recognised each other under the shaded lights.  “Hullo, Chichester, what are you doing here?” demanded Doyle heartily.  “Thought you were in France.”

“So I was, up to yesterday.  I’ve just arrived.  Orders.”

“Where have you been?”

“Rouen.  It’s a big show now.  Place full of new troops and mechanics in uniform.  To tell you the truth, Doyle, the Army’s a different proposition from what it was when you and I were in Egypt and India.  But that’s a long time ago, old friend.”

“Rouen, eh?  Now, that’s a coincidence.  A young chap I know has just gone there, in your department.  Graham—­Peter Graham.  Remember him?”

“Oh, quite well.  A very decent chap, I thought.  Joined us ten days ago or so.  What about it?  I forget for the moment where we put him.”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.  He’ll find his feet all right.  But what’s this about no parade services these days?”

“No parade services?  We have ’em all right, when we can.  Of course, it depends a bit on the O.C., and in the Labour Corps especially it isn’t usually possible.  It isn’t like the line, old fellow, and even the line isn’t what we knew it.  You can’t have parade services in trenches, and you can’t have them much when the men are off-loading bully beef or mending aeroplanes and that sort of thing.  This war’s a big proposition, and it’s got to go on.  Why?  Young Graham grousing?”

“No, no—­oh, no,” hastily asserted Doyle, the soul of honour.  “No, not at all.  Only mentioned not getting a parade, and it seemed to me a pity.  There’s a lot in the good old established religion.”

“Is there?” said the other thoughtfully.  “I’m not so sure to-day.  The men don’t like being ordered to pray.  They prefer to come voluntarily.”

Doyle got fierce.  “Don’t like being ordered, don’t they?  Then what the deuce are they there for?  Good Lord, man! the Army isn’t a debating society or a mothers’ meeting.  You might as well have voluntary games at a public school!”

The A.C.G. smiled.  “That’s it, old headstrong!  No, my boy, the Army isn’t a mothers’ meeting—­at any rate, Fritz doesn’t think so.  But times have changed, and in some ways they’re better.  I’d sooner have fifty men at a voluntary service than two hundred on a parade.”