he was naturally a man of few words, and phlegmatic.  He described the first battle of Ypres, in which he had been “wownded,” in exactly twenty-four words, and I could never get any more out of him, though he became comparatively voluble on the subject of his wife at Norwich and the twins.  He was an East Anglian, and made four vowels do duty for five, his e’s being always pronounced as a’s; he had done his seven years’ “sarvice” with the colours, and was a reservist; he was an admirable servant—­steady, cool, and honest.  I imagine he had never acted as servant to any of his regimental officers, for on the first occasion when he brought up my breakfast I was not a little amused to observe that the top of the egg had been carefully removed, the rolls sliced and buttered, and the bread and butter cut into slender “fingers,” presumably for me to dip into the ochreous interior of the egg; it reminded me of my nursery days.  Perhaps he was in the habit of doing it for the twins.  I gently weaned him from this tender habit.  He performed all his duties, such as making my bed, or handing me a letter, with quick automatic movements as though he were presenting arms.  Also his face, which was usually expressionless as though his mind were “at ease,” had a way of suddenly coming to “attention” when you spoke to him.  He had a curious and recondite knowledge of the folk-lore of the British Army, and entertained me at times with stories of “Kruger’s Own,” “The White Shirts,” “The Dirty Twelfth,” “The Holy Boys,” “The Saucy Seventh,” having names for the regiments which you will never find in the Army List.  In short, he was a survival and in a way a tragic survival.  For how many of the old Army are left?  I fear very few, and many traditions may have perished with them.

In his solicitude for me Sykes had jealous rivals in Madame and Jeanne.  Madame reserved to herself as her peculiar prerogative the deposit of a hot-water “bottle” in my bed every night, such a hot-water bottle as I have never seen elsewhere.  It reminded me of nothing so much as the barrel of one of the newer machine-guns, being a long fluted cylinder of black steel.  This was always borne by Madame every night in ritualistic procession, Jeanne following with a silver candlestick and a night-light.  The ceremony concluded with a bow and “good-night,” two words of which Madame was inordinately proud.  She never attained “good-morning,” but she more than supplied the deficiency of English speech by the grace of her French manners, always entering my room at 8 A.M. as I lay in bed, with the greeting, “Bon matin, M’sieu’, avez-vous bien dormi?” Perhaps I looked, as I felt, embarrassed on the first occasion, for she quickly added in French, “I am old enough to be your mother”—­as indeed she was.  She had at once the resignation in repose and the agitation in action of extreme old age.  I have seen her dozing in her chair in the salon, as I passed through the hall, with her gnarled