sunshine, or at any rate hope. How the villagers had shouted and cheered
them! How the women had wept with sheer joy, and shy young girls had
thrust flowers into their buttonholes! What heroes they had felt
swinging forward to meet the enemy, to defend the homes of their friends
and Allies, and avenge their wrongs!

The rôle had been melodramatic, superb! But here they were, skirting the
very gates of Paris, apparently fleeing before the enemy, and this
without having made any very determined effort at resistance. Poor
protectors they must have looked! Those simple peasants would not
understand the efficacy, the necessity even, of running away "to live
and fight another day," with a greater chance of success.

The Subaltern often used to wonder what the poor wretches thought of
troops, which, though in possession of arms and ammunition, still
retreated--always retreated. They could not understand.

The march came to an end about one o'clock. A halt of half-an-hour for
dinner was ordered in the shade of some huge trees in a park. The
mess-cart and Cookers arrived, and a meal was soon in progress. The
Regimental Officer of what is now referred to as the "Old Army" was
perhaps the best-mannered man one could possibly meet. His training in
the Mess made him so. He was the sort of man who would not have done
anything which so much as even suggested rudeness or greed. He was as
scrupulous of his Mess Rules as a Roman Catholic Priest is of his
conduct at High Mass. To the newly-joined Subaltern, Guest Night
conveyed the holy impression of a religious rite. But here was a comic
demonstration of the fact that the strictest training is only, after
all, a veneer. Two Senior Officers were actually squabbling about a
quarter-pound tin of marmalade! The Subaltern could not help smiling.