Herbertson rattled away, rather spasmodic.  He had been through the very front hell of the war—­and like every man who had, he had the war at the back of his mind, like an obsession.  But in the meantime, he skirmished.

“Yes.  I was on guard one day when the Queen gave one of her tea-parties to the blind.  Awful affair.  But the children are awfully nice children.  Prince of Wales awfully nice, almost too nice.  Prince Henry smart boy, too—­oh, a smart boy.  Queen Mary poured the tea, and I handed round bread and butter.  She told me I made a very good waiter.  I said, Thank you, Madam.  But I like the children.  Very different from the Battenbergs.  Oh!—­” he wrinkled his nose.  “I can’t stand the Battenbergs.”

“Mount Battens,” said Lilly.

“Yes!  Awful mistake, changing the royal name.  They were Guelfs, why not remain it?  Why, I’ll tell you what Battenberg did.  He was in the Guards, too—­”

The talk flowed on:  about royalty and the Guards, Buckingham Palace and St. James.

“Rather a nice story about Queen Victoria.  Man named Joyce, something or other, often used to dine at the Palace.  And he was an awfully good imitator—­really clever, you know.  Used to imitate the Queen.  ’Mr. Joyce,’ she said, ’I hear your imitation is very amusing.  Will you do it for us now, and let us see what it is like?’ ’Oh, no, Madam!  I’m afraid I couldn’t do it now.  I’m afraid I’m not in the humour.’  But she would have him do it.  And it was really awfully funny.  He had to do it.  You know what he did.  He used to take a table-napkin, and put it on with one corner over his forehead, and the rest hanging down behind, like her veil thing.  And then he sent for the kettle-lid.  He always had the kettle-lid, for that little crown of hers.  And then he impersonated her.  But he was awfully good—­so clever.  ‘Mr. Joyce,’ she said.  ‘We are not amused.  Please leave the room.’  Yes, that is exactly what she said:  ‘WE are not amused—­please leave the room.’  I like the WE, don’t you?  And he a man of sixty or so.  However, he left the room and for a fortnight or so he wasn’t invited—­Wasn’t she wonderful—­Queen Victoria?”

And so, by light transitions, to the Prince of Wales at the front, and thus into the trenches.  And then Herbertson was on the subject he was obsessed by.  He had come, unconsciously, for this and this only, to talk war to Lilly:  or at Lilly.  For the latter listened and watched, and said nothing.  As a man at night helplessly takes a taxi to find some woman, some prostitute, Herbertson had almost unthinkingly got into a taxi and come battering at the door in Covent Garden, only to talk war to Lilly, whom he knew very little.  But it was a driving instinct—­to come and get it off his chest.