weakness of sentiment.
His close comrade was of more delicate fiber, a gentle soul, not made
for soldiering at all, but rather for domestic life, with children about
him, and books. As the evenings passed in this French village, drawing
him closer to Loos by the flight of time, I saw the trouble in his eyes
which he tried to hide by smiling and by courteous conversation. He
was being drawn closer to Loos and farther away from the wife who knew
nothing of what that name meant to her and to him.

Other officers of the Guards came into the garden--Grenadiers. There
were two young brothers of an old family who had always sent their sons
to war. They looked absurdly young when they took off their tunics and
played a game of cricket, with a club for a bat, and a tennis-ball. They
were just schoolboys, but with the gravity of men who knew that life is
short. I watched their young athletic figures, so clean-limbed, so
full of grace, as they threw the ball, and had a vision of them lying
mangled.

An Indian prince came into the garden. It was "Ranjitsinji," who had
carried his bat to many a pavilion where English men and women had
clapped their hands to him, on glorious days when there was sunlight on
English lawns. He took the club and stood at the wicket and was bowled
third ball by a man who had only played cricket after ye manner of
Stratford-atte-Bow. But then he found himself, handled the club like a
sword, watched the ball with a falcon's eye, played with it. He was
on the staff of the Indian Cavalry Corps, which was "to co-operate in
exploiting any success."

"To-morrow we move," said one of the Scots Guards officers. The colonel
of the battalion came to dinner at our mess, sitting down to a white
tablecloth for the last time in his life. They played a game of cards,
and went away earlier than usual.

Two of them lingered after the colonel had gone. They drank more whisky.

"We must be going," they said, but did not go.

The delicate-looking man could not hide the trouble in his eyes.

"I sha'n't be killed this time," he said to a friend of mine. "I shall
be badly wounded."

The hard man, who loved flowers, drank his fourth glass of whisky.

"It's going to be damned uncomfortable," he said. "I wish the filthy
thing were over. Our generals will probably arrange some glorious little
massacres. I know 'em!... Well, good night, all."

They went out into the darkness of the village lane. Battalions were
already on