ccumbing to the prevailing oppression of
mud. The authorities have put even these women into khaki now, but
that has made little difference. Before that order came out the
ladies had failed to realise that it was their duty to deck
themselves in scarlet, green, and gold, to save the rest of us from
depression.

Mr. Wells went out to see the war at one time, and returned to make
merry, rather ponderously, over the fact that some officers still
wear spurs. Perhaps if Mr. Wells had lived for two months in a large
camp wholly given over to the devil of khaki he would have taken a
different view of spurs. They are almost the only things left in war
which glitter. They are of incalculable value. So far from stripping
them from the boots of officers supposed to be mounted, additional
spurs should be worn on other parts of the uniform, on shoulder
straps for instance, with a view to improving the spirits, and
therefore the _moral_, of the army.

It does not in the least matter that spurs are seldom driven into the
sides of horses. No one now uses spurs as goads. They are worn for
the sake of the shine and glitter of them. In the fortunate owner
they are an inspiriting evidence of "swank." To every one else they
are, as Ireland used to be, "the one bright spot" in a desperately
drab world. M., a wiser man than I, always wore spurs, though I do
not think he ever used them on his horses. He was naturally a man of
buoyant cheerfulness, and I daresay would not have succumbed to khaki
depression even if he had worn no spurs. But I think the spurs helped
him. I know the sight of them helped me when they glittered on the
heels of his boots as he tramped along, or glanced in the firelight
when he crossed his legs in front of the mess-room stove.

For a long time after settling down in that camp I was vaguely uneasy
without being able to discover what was the matter with me. I was
thoroughly healthy. I was well fed. I was associating with kindly and
agreeable men. I had plenty of interesting work to do. Yet I was
conscious of something wrong. It was not homesickness, a feeling I
know well and can recognise. It was not fear. I was as safe as if I
had been in England.

I discovered, by accident, that I was suffering from an unsatisfied
yearning for colour. Drafts of a Scottish regiment came out from home
wearing bright-red hackles in their caps; unmistakable spots of
colour amid our drab surroundings. I found my eyes following these