Colonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat beside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in his job.  The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he leaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom, only vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior’s occasional questions.  Peter didn’t know which he hated the more; but he concluded that whereas he would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy shooting the Adjutant.

“Ah!” said the Colonel.  “Are you Captain Graham?  Well, sir, what’s the meaning of this?  You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you, and you did not report at the station.  You damned padres think you can do any bally thing you choose!  Out here for a picnic, I suppose.  What is the meaning of it?”

“Well, sir,” said Peter, “I waited ten days for the order and it did not come.  At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to execute it.  I’m very sorry, but can’t I go to-day instead?”

“Good God, sir! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your benefit?  Do you think nobody has anything else to do except to arrange things to suit your convenience?  We haven’t got troopers with Pullman cars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you think we ought to have.  Supposing you did have to wait, what about it?  What else have you to do?  You’d have waited fast enough if it was an order to go on leave; that’s about all you parsons think about. I don’t know what you can do.  What had he better do, Mallony?”

The Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly.

“Probably he’d better report to the R.T.O., sir,” he said.

“Oh, very well.  It won’t be any good, though.  Go up to the R.T.O. and ask him what you can do.  Here’s the order.” (He threw it across the table, and Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, “Failed to Report—­R.T.O., Gare du Vert.”) “But don’t apply to this office again.  Haven’t you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?”

“The A.C.G.’s away, sir,” said Peter.

“On leave, I suppose.  Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Mallony?  Always on leave or in Paris, and doin’ nothing in between....  Got those returns, sergeant?...  What in hell are you waiting for, padre?”

For the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red really means.  But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word, and passed out.

In a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart reached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently come for the day to wait for the train.  Big notices made it impossible to miss the Railway Transport Officer.  He passed down a passage and into an office.  He loathe and hated the whole wide world as he went in.

A young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, glanced up at him.  Peter observed in time that he had two stars only on his shoulder-strap.  Before he could speak, the other said cheerily:  “Well, padre, and what can I do for you?”