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Bombardier Calvert had gone to his dinner; the huge oblong of the gunpark held never a human figure—only the dark-green shapes of the dragons—when the commander of the Turban battery emerged from his office and made his way slowly towards the tin buildings of the mess.

He frowned as he went. These last days—except for the brief Sabbath interval—had been altogether perturbing. One’s imagination seemed out of hand—and every molehill a mountain. Physically, too, one didn’t feel quite up to the mark—probably for lack of exercise.

“Have a good gallop this afternoon”, he decided. “Blow away the cobwebs.”

Yet the prescience of another European war harassed him, as he dropped cap and cane on the side table of the anteroom, and told the young waiter in the striped jacket and the dark blue trousers to bring his customary gin and It.

Except for two young subalterns of the other brigade the low-ceilinged room with the narrow windows was empty. He took a newspaper from the centre table; and seated himself on the club fender.

“High hopes for the new reign”, he read. “Edward the Eighth, Soldier and Social Reformer.”

“Good picture of him, isn’t it?” said a voice over his shoulder; and he looked up to see Cyril Headworth, Lampson’s adjutant.

His thoughts came back to Godden.

A bit of luck, this. Headworth, recently married, very seldom lunched in mess.

“Missis away”, he explained, accepting a drink. “Won’t be back till this evening. We’ve been spending the weekend with the Wethereds. If it hadn’t been for Wily Wilbraham—bless the man, he doesn’t half chastise me with scorpions—I’d be there now. Impressing our new C.R.A. with my fine soldierly qualities. Have you met his wife yet?”

“No.”

“Believe me, she’s a fizzer. And he’s in the most tremendous form. Preaching death to all politicians—and bloody war on all dictators.”

“I know. I had some of that at Woolwich. He spent a night there.”

“Not for preference I’ll be bound.” And the dark-haired Headworth winked a blue eye whose silky girlish lashes completely belied his character. For no man ever rode harder—either to hounds or between the flags.

“Have another?” he asked, tossing down his sherry; and, for once, Rockingham took a second drink before lunch, to which they helped themselves, as at Woolwich, from a heated serving table.

“This room’s like a blasted ice house”, grumbled Cyril Headworth as they carried in their dishes and sat down. “And the food’s no better than it used to be. Why don’t you follow my example and take a wife to your bosom?”

Ralph Lyttelton, major of their howitzer battery, already at his Stilton, chipped in with a sarcastic:

“Marriage doesn’t seem to have made you any fonder of fresh air, Headworth. Go on. Tell the waiters to close all the windows. It’ll be just like old times, then”.

“Scarlet nipples to you, sir”, retorted the adjutant, explaining, “He’s having all his oil holes painted red, so that his troops know exactly where to ply the nozzle”.

Rockingham smiled. Riley, captain of the other brigade’s howitzer battery, seated beside Lyttelton, said:

“This mess hut and our quarters are a bally disgrace. I think I shall ask for a transfer to the ranks. They have got running water anyway”.

“Luxury-loving blighter, isn’t he, Rusty?” Lyttelton spoke again.

“I think I will have the windows shut if nobody objects”, pronounced Headworth; and, having given his order without waiting for their approval, went on:

“One presumes unmarried officers must ‘live in’, as they used to say about shop girls. Messes would soon disintegrate otherwise. But it seems a bit archaic. If a fellow can afford to take digs outside—say when he reaches the rank of field officer—why shouldn’t he?”

“Bolshevik”, laughed Lyttelton. “Have you no respect for the great traditions of the British Army?”

“British Army—or Land Soldiers’ Transport Board?” asked Headworth, who had taken the loss of the horses harder than most.

The four seniors chaffed on—the handful of subalterns at the other end of the table listening appreciatively. Presently Lyttelton and Riley rose and went out.

“Port?” asked Headworth then.

“No, thanks. I never take it till the evening. By the way, there’s something I’ve got to put up to the colonel. Is he coming back this afternoon?”

“Is he not? The way W.W. chases the clock’s tail has to be seen to be believed ... And if there’s one thing I’m really fond of, it’s ten minutes’ shut eye after my coffee.”

They found coffee in the anteroom; drank it standing.

“If I were you”, said Headworth, “I should catch W.W. on the hop.”

“That was rather what I’d planned to do. I want to get a ride in this afternoon if I can manage it.”

“Right. Let’s buzz off.”