Various seniors came up and passed the time of the day with me—­ one or two were bald-headed retired colonels of sixty, dressed in khaki, with belts like equators on a terrestrial globe and with a captain’s three stars on their sleeves.  Gallant old boys, full of gout and softness, they had sunk their rank and taken whatever dull jobs, such as guarding internment camps or railway bridges, the War Office condescendingly thought fit to give them.  They listened sympathetically to my grievances, for they had grievances of their own.  When soldiers have no grievances the Army will perish of smug content.

“Why can’t they give me a billet in the Army Pay and let me release a man sounder of wind and limb?” I asked.  “What’s the good of legs to a man who sits on his hunkers all day in an office and fills up Army forms?  I hate seeing you lucky fellows in uniform.”

“We’re not a pretty sight,” said the most rotund, who was a wag in his way.

Then we discussed what we knew and what we didn’t know of the Battle of Ypres, and the withdrawal of our Second Army, and shook our heads dolorously over the casualty lists, every one of which in those days contained the names of old comrades and of old comrades’ boys.  And when they had finished their coffee and mild cigars they went off well contented to their dull jobs and the room began to thin.  Other acquaintances on their way out paused for a handshake and a word, and I gathered scraps of information that had come “straight from Kitchener,” and felt wonderfully wise and cheerful.

I had been sitting alone for a few minutes when a man rose from a far corner, a tall soldierly figure, his arm in a sling, and came straight towards me with that supple, easy stride that only years of confident command can give.  He had keen blue eyes and a pleasant bronzed face which I knew that I had seem somewhere before.  I noticed on his sleeve the crown and star of a lieutenant-colonel.  He said pleasantly: 

“You’re Major Meredyth, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said I.

“You don’t remember me.  No reason why you should.  But my name’s Dacre—­Reggie Dacre, brother of Johnnie Dacre in your battery.  We met in Cape Town.”

I held out my hand.

“Of course,” said I.  “You took me to a hospital.  Do sit down for a bit.  You a member here?”

“No.  I belong to the Naval and Military.  Lunching with old General Donovan, a sort of god-father of mine.  He told me who you were.  I haven’t seen you since that day in South Africa.”

I asked for news of Johnnie, who had been lost to my ken for years.  Johnnie had been in India, and was now doing splendidly with his battery somewhere near La Bassee.  I pointed to the sling.  Badly hurt?  No, a bit of flesh torn by shrapnel.  Bone, thank God, not touched.  It was only horny-headed idiots like the British R. A. M. C. that would send a man home for such a trifle.  It was devilish hard lines to be hoofed away from the regiment practically just after he had got his command.  However, he would be back in a week or two.  He laughed.