ar is over.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, a few doors away, a host of officers is sitting in the Cafe
de la Terre. Cafes are as plentiful as blackberries in this, as in
most other French provincial towns, and they are usually filled to
overflowing with privates of the British Army heroically drinking beer
upon which they know it is impossible to get intoxicated. But the
proprietor of the Cafe de la Terre is a long-headed citizen. By the
simple expedient of labelling his premises "Officers Only," and making
a minimum charge of one franc per drink, he has at a single stroke
ensured the presence of the _elite_ and increased his profits tenfold.

Many arms of the Service are grouped round the little marble-topped
tables, for the district is stiff with British troops, and promises
to grow stiffer. In fact, so persistently are the eagles gathering
together upon this, the edge of the fighting line, that rumour is
busier than ever. The Big Push holds redoubled sway in our thoughts.
The First Hundred Thousand are well represented, for the whole
Scottish Division is in the neighbourhood. Beside the glengarries
there are countless flat caps--line regiments, territorials, gunners,
and sappers. The Army Service Corps is there in force, recruiting
exhausted nature from the strain of dashing about the countryside in
motor-cars. The R.A.M.C. is strongly represented, doubtless to test
the purity of the refreshment provided. Even the Staff has torn itself
away from its arduous duties for the moment, as sundry red tabs
testify. In one corner sit four stout French civilians, playing a
mysterious card-game.

At the very next table we find ourselves among friends. Here are Major
Kemp, also Captain Blaikie. They are accompanied by Ayling, Bobby
Little, and Mr. Waddell. The battalion came out of trenches yesterday,
and for the first time found itself in urban billets. For the moment
haylofts and wash-houses are things of the dim past. We are living in
real houses, sleeping in real beds, some with sheets.

To this group enters unexpectedly Captain Wagstaffe.

"Hallo, Wagger!" says Blaikie. "Back already?"

"Your surmise is correct," replies Wagstaffe, who has been home on
leave. "I got a wire yesterday at lunch-time--in the Savoy, of all
places! Every one on leave has been recalled. We were packed like
herrings on the boat. Garcon, biere--the brunette kind!"

"Tell us all about London," says Ayling hungrily. "Wh