It was July, 1916.  The first battle of the Somme, launched some days past, was at its very climacteric.  The casualties had been and were terrible.  Even at this moment of night the fury of the attack was not relaxed.  All through the day reports, exasperating in their brevity, had been streaming into Paris, and rumour, as of old, circled swift-winged above the city, making good or ill the deficiencies of the telegrams.  One fact, however, had leaped to light, unassailably true.  The Clayfords, stationed on the north of the line at Thiepval, had redeemed their name and added a new lustre to their erstwhile shining record.  The devotion of the officers, the discipline of the men, had borne their fruits.  At a most critical moment the Clayfords had been forced to change front against a flank attack, under a galling fire and in the very press of battle, and the long extended line had swung to its new position with the steadiness of veterans, and, having reached it, had stood fast.  Hillyard rejoiced with a sincerity as deep as if he himself held his commission in that regiment.  But the losses had been terrible; and Martin Hillyard was troubled to the roots of his heart by doubts whether Harry Luttrell were at this moment knowing the deep contentment that the fixed aim of his boyhood and youth had been fulfilled; or whether he was lying out on the dark ground beneath the stars unaware of it and indifferent.  Hillyard nursed a hope that some blunder had been made, and that he would find his compartment occupied.

The controller, in his brown uniform with the brass buttons and his peaked cap, stood at the steps of the car with the attendant.

“Eleven and twelve,” said Hillyard, handing to him his ticket.

The attendant, a middle-aged, stout man with a black moustache and a greasy face, shot one keen glance from under the peak of his cap at the occupant of numbers 11 and 12, and then led the way along the corridor.

The compartment was empty.  Hillyard looked around it with a grudging eye.

“I am near the middle of the coach here, I think,” he said.

“Yes, monsieur, quite in the middle.”

“That is well,” answered Hillyard.  “I am an invalid, and cannot sleep when there is much motion.”

He spoke irritably, with that tone of grievance peculiar to the man who thinks his health is much worse than it is.

“Can I get coffee in the morning?” he asked.

“At half-past six, monsieur.  But you must get out of the train for it.”

Hillyard uttered an exclamation of disgust, and shrugged his shoulders.  “What a country!” the gesture said as plainly as speech.

“But it is the war, monsieur!” the attendant expostulated with indignation.

“Oh, yes, I know!  The war!” Hillyard retorted with ill-humour.  “Do I want a bath?  I cannot have it.  It is the war.  If a waiter is rude to me, it is the war.  If my steak is over-cooked it is the war.  The war!  It is the excuse for everything.”