boards and looked anxiously at the Colonel, who was

discoursing on the origins of art, religion, sex, the perception of form.

Colonel Lavington grinned at him.

"All right, Cyril. I know you have got a rendezvous with some girl. Don't let us keep you from your career of infamy."

"As a matter of fact, sir, I met a sweet little thing yesterday——" Clatworthy knew that his reputation as an amorist did not displease the Colonel, who was a romantic, and loved youth.

In a gust of laughter the mess broke up. Charles Fortune and the Colonel prepared for an orgy of Bach over the piano in the drawing-room of that house in Lille. Those who cared to listen might—or not, as they pleased. Brand and I went out into the streets, pitch-dark now, unlit by any glimmer of gas, and made our way to the convent where the girl Eileen O'Connor lodged. We passed a number of British soldiers in the Boulevard de la Liberté, wearing their steel hats and carrying their packs.

A group of them stopped under a doorway to light cigarettes. One of them spoke to his pals.

"They tell me there's some bonny wenches in this town."

"Ay," said another, "an' I could do wi' some hugging in a cosy billet."

"Cosy billet!" said the third, with a cockney voice. "Town or trenches, the poor bloody soldier gets it in the neck. Curse this pack! I'm fed up with the whole damn show. I want Peace."

A hoarse laugh answered him.

"Peace! You don't believe that fool's talk in the papers, chum? It's a hell of a long way to the