“Party!” he roared.  “Shunsuwere!” We gave two convulsive jerks.  “Smarten up there, smarten HUP!  Get a move on!  This ain’t a waxwork.  Shunsuwere!...  Shun!!  Party present, Sir.”

The Major inspected us.

“I don’t like this smear, Sergeant,” he said, pointing to Ansell’s upper lip.

Seymour examined the feature in question.

“It don’t appear to be dirt, Sir.  Some sort o’ growth, I think.  You try sand-papering it, me lad, an’ you’ll find it come orf all right.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” answered Ansell solemnly.

The Major proceeded to Haynes, and eyed him with disfavour.

“We can’t do nothing with this man, Sir,” said Seymour deprecatingly.  “’Is legs is that bandy.”

“What do you mean, Private Haynes, by appearing on ceremonial parade with a pair of bandy legs?”

“It wasn’t my fault, Sir.  ‘Strewth, it wasn’t.  They got wet, Sir, an’ I went an’ dried ’em at the cook’ouse fire, Sir, an’ they got warped, Sir.”

“Well,” said the Major, “don’t bring ’em on parade again.  Tell your Q.M.S.  I say you’re to have a new pair.”

“Very good, Sir.”

The Major passed on to me, and surveyed my left arm more in anger than in sorrow.

“Why has this man got his blue band fastened on with pins?” he demanded.  “Why isn’t it sewn on?  Why hasn’t he fastened it on with elastic?  D’you hear me?  Are you deaf?  Why isn’t it sewn on?  Why don’t you speak?”

“Please, Sir....”

“Don’t answer me back!  Sergeant, take this man’s name.  He is insolent.  Take his name for insolence.  You are insolent, Sir.  You’re a disgrace to the Army.  You’re a ...”

“If you’ve quite finished with my squad, Major,” put in Sister in a quiet voice from the door, “the car is here, and we’re late already.  I shall have to push a bit.”

I promptly made for the seat beside the driver, explaining that I wanted to see the speedometer burst.  Sister does a good many things, and does most of them well; but her particular accomplishment is her motor-driving.  After my experiences in different cars at the Front—­especially those driven by Frenchmen—­I thought at first that motoring had no new thrills to offer me; but when Sister takes corners I still clutch at anything handy.

Surrey began to stream past us.  The landscape was extremely beautiful, but only the more distant parts of it were visible except as a mere blur.  After five or six miles we turned into a long straight stretch of road.

“The Hepworths live somewhere along this,” said Sister.  “There’s a lovely sunken garden just in front of the house which I want you to notice.  Hallo! here we are; I thought it was further on.”

The car whizzed round and through a drive gateway half hidden in trees.  When I opened my eyes again I looked for the sunken garden; but except for a few very prim-looking flower-beds the grounds in front of the house consisted entirely of a lawn, round which the drive took a broad circular sweep.