I dined with him in his mess that evening, before going on with him to spend an hour or two with Eileen O'Connor, who had a room in some convent on the outskirts of Lille. The advanced headquarters of this little group of officers had been established in one of those big private houses which belong to the rich manufacturers and business people of Lille (rich before the war, but with desolate factories stripped of all machinery during the German occupation, and afterwards), with large, heavily-furnished rooms built round a court-*yard and barred off from the street by the big front door. There was a motor lorry inside the door, which was wide open, and some orderlies were unloading camp-*beds, boxes of maps, officers' kit, a mahogany gramophone, and other paraphernalia, under the direction of a young Cockney sergeant who wanted to know why the blazes they didn't look slippy.
"Don't you know there's a war on?" he asked a stolid old soldier—one of the heroes of Mons—who was sitting on a case of whiskey, with a wistful look, as though reflecting on the unfair privileges of officers with so much wealth of drink.
"War's all right if you're not too close to it," said the Mons hero. "I've seen enough. I've done my bleeding bit for Kin and Country. South Africa, Egypt"
"Shut your jaw," said the sergeant. "'And down that blarsted gramophone."
"Ah!" said the Mons hero. "We didn't 'ave no blarsted gramophones in South Africa. This is a different kind of
