“Tomorrow we move,” said one of the Scots Guards officers. The colonel of the battalion came to dinner at our mess, sitting down to a white tablecloth for the last time in his life. They played a game of cards, and went away earlier than usual.

Two of them lingered after the colonel had gone. They drank more whisky.

“We must be going,” they said, but did not go.

The delicate-looking man could not hide the trouble in his eyes.

“I shan’t be killed this time,” he said to a friend of mine. “I shall be badly wounded.”

The hard man, who loved flowers, drank his fourth glass of whisky.

“It’s going to be damned uncomfortable,” he said. “I wish the filthy thing were over. Our generals will probably arrange some glorious little massacres. I know ’em!⁠ ⁠… Well, good night, all.”