he thought: Why did he not stay near the gate for me? But she thought
again: Because he feared to miss the train. It was necessary that he
should be close to his compartment. He knows he is not quite sober.

She wondered whether he had any relatives, or any relations with
another woman. He seemed to be as solitary as she was.

On the same side of the platform-gate as herself a very tall, slim,
dandy of an officer was bending over a smartly-dressed girl, smiling
at her and whispering. Suddenly the girl turned from him with a
disdainful toss of the head and said in a loud, clear Cockney voice:

"You can't tell the tale to me, young man. This is my second time on
earth."

Christine heard the words, but was completely puzzled. The train
moved, at first almost imperceptibly. The handkerchiefs showed extreme
agitation. Then a raucous song floated from the train:

"John Brown's baby's got a pimple on his--_shoooo_--
John Brown's baby's got a pimple on his--_shoooo_--
John Brown's baby's got a pimple on his--_shoooo_--
and we all went marching home.
Glory, glory, Alleluia!
Glory, glory ..."

The rails showed empty where the train had been, and the sound of the
song faded and died. Some of the women were crying. Christine felt
that she was in a land of which she understood nothing but the tears.
She also felt very cold in the legs.

Chapter 22

GETTING ON WITH THE WAR

The floors of the Reynolds Galleries were covered with some hundreds
of very well-dressed and very expensively-dressed women and some
scores of men. The walls were covered with a loan collection of
oil-paintings, water-colour drawings, and etchings--English and
French, but chiefly English. A very large proportion of the pictures
were portraits of women done by a select group of very expensive
painters in the highest vogue. These portraits were the main
attraction of the elegant crowd, which included many of the sitters;
as for the latter, they failed to hide under an unconvincing mask of
indifference their curiosity as to their own effectiveness in a frame.

The portraits for the most part had every quality save that of
sincerity. They were transcendantly adroit and they reeked of talent.
They were luxurious, refined, sensual, titillating, exquisite, tender,
compact, of striking poses and subtle new tones. And while the heads
were well finished and instantly recognisable as likenesses, the
impressionism of the hands and of the pro