more, and a small table or two stood about. Nearly every chair had its
occupant--all sorts and conditions of officers, mostly in undress, and he
noticed some fast asleep, with muddied boots. There was a look on their
faces, even in sleep, and Peter guessed that some at least were down
from the line on their way to a brief leave. More and more came in
continuously. Stewards with drinks passed quickly in and out about them.
The Fusilier and his friend were just ordering something. Peter opened
his case and took out a cigarette, tapping it carefully before lighting
it. He began to feel at home and lazy and comfortable, as if he had been
there before.

An orderly entered with envelopes in his hand. "Lieutenant Frazer?" he
called, and looked round inquiringly. There was no reply, and he turned
to the next. "Captain Saunders?" Still no reply. "Lieutenant Morcombe?"
Still no reply. "Lieutenant Morcombe," he called again. Nobody took any
interest, and he turned on his heel, pushed the swing-door open, and
departed.

Then Donovan came in, closely followed by Bevan. Peter got up and made
towards them. "Hullo!" said Bevan. "Have an appetiser, padre. Lunch will
be on in twenty minutes. What's yours, skipper?"

The three of them moved on to Peter's chair, and Bevan dragged up
another. Peter subsided, and Donovan sat on the edge. Peter pulled
out his cigarette-case again, and offered it. Bevan, after one or two
ineffectual attempts, got an orderly at last.

"Well, here's fun," he said.

"Cheerio," said Peter. He remembered Donovan had said that in the saloon.