step and angrily imploring them to pick it up. At the tail of the
procession followed a woman; she also carried a package.

They turned into the Strand, passed by Charing Cross and branched off
to the right down a lane to the Embankment. At the point where they
left the Strand, the man without a parcel spoke to the sergeant and
fell out of the ranks. He laid his clumsy hand on the woman's arm; she
set down on the pavement the parcel she had been carrying. There they
stood for a full minute gazing at each other dumbly, oblivious to the
passing crowds. She wasn't pleasing to look at--just a slum woman with
draggled skirts, a shawl gathered tightly round her and a mildewed
kind of bonnet. He was no more attractive--a hulking Samson, perhaps a
day-labourer, who whilst he had loved her, had probably beaten her.
They had come to the hour of parting, and there they stood in the
London sunshine inarticulate after life together. He glanced after the
procession; it was two hundred yards away by now. Stooping awkwardly
for the burden which she had carried for him, in a shame-faced kind of
way he kissed her; then broke from her to follow his companions. She
watched him forlornly, her hands hanging empty. Never once did he look
back as he departed. Catching up, he took his place in the ranks; they
rounded a corner and were lost. Her eyes were quite dry; her jaw
sagged stupidly. For some seconds she stared after the way he had
gone--_her man_! Then she wandered off as one who had no purpose.

Wounded men commenced to appear in the streets. You saw them in
restaurants, looking happy and embarrassed, being paraded by proud
families. One day I met two in my tailor's shop--one had an arm in a
sling, the other's head had been seared by a bullet. It was whispered
that they were officers who had "got it" at Mons. A thrill ran through
me--a thrill of hero-worship.