In the sleepy buildings officers worked at desks,
disturbed by the roar of cannon only when an unusually heavy bombardment conspired with a favourable wind. You pictured Sir Douglas Haig,
even farther removed, in an isolated château,
seated in a somnolent library, the cradle of every
detail of routine and death. Peace at headquar-
ters and horror at the front, but not an ounce of
glamour left in war anywhere!
Our own home shared the restfulness of the headquarters villages. We came upon it for the first time on the edge of this golden sunset. Far at the end of an avenue of huge and symmetrical trees stood the red and white façade of a château. Two time-stained gate houses were outposts. A clock stared from the top story, justifying Williams' hurry.
Two dogs ran around the corner, greeting us excitedly. Military servants took our bags. I was led into a comfortable room, and stared from its broad windows at a great park, bounded by evergreens and elms. I saw a sun dial in the centre. Magpies flew with a gentle rustling of wings among the trees. It was difficult any longer to believe in the reason for this visit. And it was always like that at the château. To be sure staff officers came to dine with us each night, and we talked continually of war, for to discuss shop isn't
