With a pronounced reluctance the dun light
penetrated the great hall, which had an air of
mourning. Soldiers crowded the wide spaces,
shivering. Their uniforms were soiled. Some
retained the white marks of the trenches. The
young faces were drawn, unhappy, wondering.
For the most part these fellows were permissionaires, returning to the trenches after eight days
of home and love and hero worship. They had
swung their backs on all that, knowing, if they
were not hit, it would be many months, perhaps
a year, before they could experience such blessings again. They were like a band of men of
whom a certain number has been chosen for some
violent discipline and who are left in doubt as to
the actual selections.
The place was saturated with melancholy. Instinctively we left it. Across the plaza we saw a café whose name was in harmony with the spirit of the station.
"Café du Départ."
"A cup of coffee?" the elderly Quaker suggested, for neither of us had had any breakfast.
We sat on the terrasse among the soldiers, watching regretful faces above faded uniforms. Accoutrements littered the pavement between the tables. One or two men spoke to us formally, and we answered formally. Beyond that there
