Major Wagstaffe, D.S.O., having been absent from London upon urgent public affairs for nearly three years, was not well versed in the newest refinements of club life.  He had arrived that morning from his Convalescent Home in the west country, and had already experienced a severe reverse at the hands of the small girl with brass buttons on venturing to order a sherry and bitters at 11.45 A.M.  Consequently, at the statutory hour, his voice was not uplifted with the rest; and he was served last.  Not least, however; for Hebe, observing his empty sleeve, poured out his soda-water with her own fair hands, and offered to light his cigarette.

This scene of dalliance was interrupted by the arrival of Captain Bobby Little.  He wore the ribbon of the Military Cross and walked with a stick—­a not unusual combination in these great days.  Wagstaffe made room for him upon the leather sofa, and Hebe supplied his modest wants with an indulgent smile.

An autumn and a winter had passed since the attack on Longueval.  From July until the December floods, the great battle had raged.  The New Armies, supplied at last with abundant munitions, a seasoned Staff, and a concerted plan of action, had answered the question propounded in a previous chapter in no uncertain fashion.  Through Longueval and Delville Wood, where the graves of the Highlanders and South Africans now lie thick, through Flers and Martinpuich, through Pozieres and Courcelette, they had fought their way, till they had reached the ridge, with High Wood at its summit, which the Boche, not altogether unreasonably, had regarded as impregnable.  The tide had swirled over the crest, down the reverse slope, and up at last to the top of that bloodstained knoll of chalk known as the Butte de Warlencourt.  There the Hun threw in his hand.  With much loud talk upon the subject of victorious retirements and Hindenburg Lines, he withdrew himself to a region far east of Bapaume; with the result that now some thousand square miles of the soil of France had been restored once and for all to their rightful owners.

But Bobby and Wagstaffe had not been there.  All during the autumn and winter they had lain softly in hospital, enjoying their first rest for two years.  Wagstaffe had lost his left arm and gained a decoration.  Bobby, in addition to his Cross, had incurred a cracked crown and a permanently shortened leg.  But both were well content.  They had done their bit—­and something over; and they had emerged from the din of war with their lives, their health, and their reason.  A man who can achieve that feat in this war can count himself fortunate.

Now, passed by a Medical Board as fit for Home Service, they had said farewell to their Convalescent Home and come to London to learn what fate Olympus held in store for them.

“Where have you been all day, Bobby?” enquired Wagstaffe, as they sat down to dinner an hour later.

“Down in Kent,” replied Bobby briefly.