in the other the same personages some ten years later, and a
lithograph of the Blessed Virgin. On each side of the table was a
deal bench, at the head and foot two wooden armchairs. A dresser stood
against the wall, on the floor by the oven was a frayed rug, and most
important of all, to Michael's mind, was a big stewpot that stood on
the top of the oven. From time to time a fat, comfortable Frenchwoman
bustled in, and took off the lid of this to stir it, or placed on the
dresser a plate of cheese, or a loaf of freshly cooked brown bread. Two
or three of Michael's brother-officers were there, one sitting in the
patch of sunlight with his back against the green door, another on the
step outside. The post had come in not long before, and all of them,
Michael included, were occupied with letters and papers.

To-day there happened to be no letters for Michael, and the paper which
he glanced at seemed a very feeble effort in the way of entertainment.
There was no news in it, except news about the war, which here, out at
the front, did not interest him in the least. Perhaps in England people
liked to know that a hundred yards of trenches had been taken at one
place, and that three German attacks had failed at another; but when
you were actually engaged (or had been or would soon again be) in taking
part in those things, it seemed a waste of paper and compositor's
time to record them. There was a column of letters also from indignant
Britons, using violent language about the crimes and treachery of
Germany. That also was uninteresting and far-fetched. Nothing that
Germany had done mattered the least. There was no use in arguing and
slinging wild expressions about; it was a stale subject altogether
when you were within earshot of that incessant booming of guns. All the
morning that had gone on without break, and no doubt they would get news
of what had happened before they set out again that evening for another
spell in the trenches. But in all probability nothing particular had
happened. Probably the London papers would record it next day, a further
tediousness on their part. It would be much more interesting to hear
what was going on there, whether there were any new plays, whether there
had been any fresh concerts, what the weather was like, or even who had
been lunching at Prince's, or dining at the Carlton.

He put down his uninteresting paper, and strolled out into the farmyard,
stepping over the legs of the junior office