well that these ideas were groundless and absurd.  He knew that the halt at La Fere was only rumour; he knew long marches were the only thing to save them, but in spite of this knowledge he was angry, enraged.  The blood flew still more to his burning cheeks, his teeth snapped together.  If he could, he would have flown to the head of the column, drawn his revolver, and emptied it in the face of that General.  He positively enjoyed picturing the results of such a crime.  He chortled over the idea of the plump figure falling from the comfortable saddle to the hard, hot road.  He imagined the neat red cap lying in the grey dust.  And his boots, he knew what they would be like—­glossy mahogany!  Why should any one have shining boots, when his own were dull and bursting?  Why should any one be clean and shaven when his own face was smeared with dirt and stubble?  He exulted inwardly at the thought of the death and mutilation of some one who had never done him the slightest harm, and whose efficiency had probably saved his life.

Such is human nature!

CHAPTER IX

SIR JOHN FRENCH

A few miles south of La Fere, the Brigade was halted in an orchard for its midday rest.  Taking from his pockets the various parts of his safety razor, the Subaltern screwed them together, and with the help of a bit of soap, from which the biscuit crumbs and chocolate dust of his haversack had first to be carefully scraped, he shaved.  As he was returning, lovingly fingering his once more smooth cheeks, he saw three large Daimler limousines draw up opposite the lines, and recognised them immediately as the authorised pattern of car for the use of the higher British Generals in the field.

An Officer hurriedly got out, and held open the door with great deference, while a second alighted.  The Subaltern easily recognised both.  The first was the Chief of the General Staff—­Sir Archibald Murray.  He was a figure of middle height, with a slight stoop, and slow movements.  His face was kindly, mobile—­not at all the conventional military face.  The mouth was tight shut, as if to suppress all the little humours and witticisms that teemed in the quick blue eyes.

The other figure, short and dapper in build, quick and nervous in motion, need not be described.  The blue eyes, the pink skin and white hair of the Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief are known wherever our language is spoken.

Two of the Colonels came forward and saluted as only a senior officer can.  A private salutes like a machine; a subaltern is awkward, but a senior officer manages somehow to insinuate into this simple movement deference and admiration, backed, as it were, with determination and self-reliance.

It is as if he were to say:  “I have the greatest esteem for you as a great man.  I admire your brain and breeding, and will execute your commands with the precision and promptitude that they deserve.  But in a lesser sort of way I am just the same, a great man; do not forget it!”