head, Dr. Bird has an air of boisterous preparation, as if
the ambulance were a picnic party and he was responsible for the
champagne.

Mr. Foster, the inquiring tourist, looks a little anxious, as if he were
preoccupied with the train he's got to catch.

Bert, the chauffeur, sits tight with the grim assurance of a man who
knows that the expedition cannot start without him. The chauffeur Tom
has an expressive face. Every minute it becomes more vivid with
humorous, contemptuous, indignant protest. It says plainly: "Well, this
is about the rottenest show I ever was let in for. Bar none. Call
yourself a field ambulance? Garn! And if you _are_ a field ambulance,
who but a blanky fool would have hit upon this old blankety haunt of
peace. It'll be the 'Ague Conference next!"

But it is on the Chaplain, Mr. Grierson, that the strain is telling
most. It shows in his pale and prominent blue eyes, and in a slight
whiteness about his high cheek-bones. In his valiant khaki he has more
than any of us the air of being on the eve. He is visibly bracing
himself to a stupendous effort. He smokes a cigarette with ostentatious
nonchalance. We all think we know these symptoms. We turn our eyes away,
considerately, from Mr. Grierson. Which of us can say that when our turn
comes the thought of danger will not spoil our breakfast?

The poor boy squares his shoulders. He is white now round the edges of
his lips. But he is going through with it.

Suddenly he speaks.

"I shall hold Matins in this room at ten o'clock every Sunday morning.
If any of you like to attend you may."

There is a terrible silence. None of us look at each other. None of us
look at Mr. Grierson.

Presently Mrs. Torrence is heard protesting that we haven't come here
for Matins; that this is a mess-room and not a private chapel; and that
Matins are against all military discipline.

"I shall hold Matins all the same," says Mr. Grierson. His voice is
thick and jerky. "And if anybody likes to attend, they can. That's all
I've got to say."

He gets up. He faces the batteries of unholy and unsympathetic eyes. He
throws away the end of his cigarette with a gesture of superb defiance.

He has gone through with it. He has faced the fire. He has come out, not
quite victorious, but with his hero's honour unstained.

It seemed to me awful that none of us should want his Matins. I should
like, personally, to see him through with them. I could face the hostile
eyes. But wh