smiles at the talk of a scarcity of men without compulsion. And these fellows are the best of the
nation—young, sturdy, handsome, awaiting their
baptism of fire with a quiet confidence. They
know, too, what that means. This war has left
them no illusions. High explosives, gas, liquid
fire, are common to their talk over tea table or
dinner. They face such things with a stolid
determination that surprises. It is the most thrill.
ing phase of London, this procession of youths
that have assumed the khaki, symbol of the
supreme sacrifice. They wear it too easily, yet in
reality there is something ecstatic about their
young faces—something quite beyond definition.
As the days passed one wondered that London should be so crowded. At the popular restaurants it was always necessary to engage a table in advance. I heard acquaintances lament that they had had to lunch at cheap tea houses after craving admittance at eight or nine packed dining-rooms in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus.
The theatres housing popular plays shared the same inflated prosperity. London had never known such a season. Yet in spite of its easy chatter, its surface cheerfulness, it was, to an extent, restrained. There was little dancing outside of private houses. Evening clothes were frowned upon. You saw them only among the
