The Hotel Metropole at Brighton is a monstrous edifice of red-brick and iron balconies, which leers stolidly across an asphalt “Front” to the sea. The stone steps of its entrance, occupied of a morning by fat couples in wicker chairs, lead under a glass-roofed portico, through a revolving door past the mahogany “Reception Offices” to a narrow hall—fire-placed and crowded with comfortable Maplesque upholstery. Beyond, are marble corridors, lifts, and a dark lounge which opens out into a vast conservatory of glass-and-iron work, wherein the band plays and love-birds (some caged, some in coats and skirts) twitter behind dusty palm-trees.

In front of the fire-place in the hall, cocktail in hand, looking down on his wife’s blond head, stood “Weasel” Stark of the Gunners.

His nickname fitted the dapper fresh-complexioned little soldier well. He had reddish hair, inclined to curl: eyes of clear cold blue: flat auburn moustache over firm lips. The tight long-skirted tunic, beltless for dinner, fitted like a skin over the muscled shoulders, the in-curved back: his slacks fell straightly creased to shining brown shoes. His hands—clean capable hands—showed a hint of freckling, the suspicion of auburn fluff. The domed forehead betrayed intelligence. A brand-new D.S.O. ribbon completes the picture.

Alice Stark (once, as Alice Sewell, the object of Jack Baynet’s none-too-stable affections) was a comfortable little person, brown-eyed, a little rabbity about the mouth. Her low dress, blue and girlish, revealed excellent shoulders, firm arms and slim hands.

The pair had been married six months: three of which the husband had spent on active service. A wound in the foot, now almost healed, had re-united them.

“Almost time for dinner, I think,” said the Colonel, putting his empty glass on the mantelshelf behind him.

“Yes, dear.” Alice looked up; saw, pushing squirrel-wise through the revolving door, a familiar figure.

The figure came towards her, and she recognized—after a minute’s hesitation at the disguise of khaki—our Mr. Jameson.

Bromley, following leisurely, heard her say, “Is it really you, Peter?” and then, “This is Douglas.”

“How do you do, sir,” Peter shook hands, introduced his friend.

“Cocktails, I think,” remarked the Weasel.

“Who is he?” he asked his wife, while the two were depositing hats and coats in the cloak-room opposite.

“Peter Jameson. He married a great friend of mine,” she whispered.

“Better invite ’em both to dinner.”

Alice nodded: and the invitation was accepted over the cocktail glasses. They passed through the glass door into the dining-room—Bromley, always shy with strangers, last—and were escorted through the crowd to an empty table.

Said the Colonel, handling the wine-list, “We can manage a Magnum, I think.”

They settled down to hors d’oeuvres and gossip.

“Are you on leave, sir?” Bromley ventured his first remark.

“Leave? No such luck. I’m commanding one of these Kitchener Brigades.” He gave the number. “Southdown Division, I believe they call it.”

“Then we are going to have some Artillery,” put in Peter. “I was told at the War Office, when I applied for my commission that there wasn’t going to be any Artillery with the new Armies.”

“Who told you that fairy-tale?” said Stark.

“A Colonel Thompson.”

“Oh, Cocky Thompson. Just like him. Pulling your leg, of course. So you joined the Infanteers, thinking the war would be done before you could get your kit. And you”—he turned to Bromley—“you’re a Cavalryman if ever I saw one!”

Bromley explained himself: the Colonel, who never put questions without a reason, following sharply.

“Like the Chalkshires?” he queried suddenly: and gathered, from the tone of the answer, all he wanted to know. The Weasel, in addition to having one of the best heads for strong liquor in the Gunners, was no mean judge of a man. Also, the “fourth Southdown Brigade” of the R.F.A.^[2] needed officers badly. He let his wife change the conversation.

“And how does Pat like you’re being a soldier?” she said to Peter. “Fancy her being only a subaltern’s ‘poor thing,’ and me a ‘Colonel’s lady’! Does she come down here often?”

“She’s coming down for Christmas.”

Bromley and the Weasel began to talk horse; the dinner went on....

“And Francis?” asked Alice. “What is our Francis Gordon doing for his country?”

Bromley broke off from a discussion on “Birdcatcher blood,” said “That isn’t the Francis Gordon, is it? The chap who wrote ‘The Nut Errant’?”

“Extraordinary,” thought Peter, having explained the relationship, “how many people do know that weird cousin of mine.” And he wondered, for the fiftieth time, what could have happened to Francis. But of Mr. “Raymond P. Sellers” and the Amsterdam trip, he said nothing....

Dinner over, they settled themselves with coffee, liqueurs and cigars, before the fire in the hall. The band was playing in the Winter Garden, the hall almost deserted.

Stark, whom two cocktails, the best part of a bottle of fizz and three liqueur brandies had left quite unmoved, began a tactful catechism. He wanted to know the number of subalterns in the Chalkshires; what chance they had of promotion: who their Colonel was; and how they got on with him: if Peter knew anything about horses; and why he had given up fox-hunting. Having assured himself on these points, he threw his cigar into the grate, and asked suddenly:

“I suppose neither of you two would care for a change?”

Bromley said, “I don’t quite understand?” Peter, who had followed the drift of the conversation almost from the first, did not speak.

“Well, quite entre nous,” began Stark, “I’m eight officers short of my twenty-four. I’ve written to Dawson at the W.O. and he says”—drawing a letter from his tunic-pocket—“‘Why not hunt about among the Infanteers? They’re hundreds over establishment in your Division.’ ... So I thought perhaps....”

There fell a short silence: then Peter said: “It’s the men I’m thinking about;” and Bromley: “I shouldn’t care to leave the old Major.”

“Well, take your time about it. There’s no hurry. We’ve only got fifty horses out of our seven hundred so far.” The Weasel pulled down his tunic; rang the bell; ordered three whiskies and sodas, a lemonade.

Shortly afterwards, with a “See you two again, I hope,” from the Colonel, and a “Yes. Do come in and dine with us, won’t you?” from his wife, the couple stepped across to the lift, shot upwards out of sight.

“Another drink?” asked Peter, lighting a cigar.

“Not much.” Bromley, a little flushed about the gills, tapped a cigarette on the back of his case. “That Colonel friend of yours must have a head like a balk of teak.”

They settled themselves comfortably in front of the fire. It lacked five minutes to half-past ten. Thought Bromley: “P.J. doesn’t realize how near we are to a bust-up. If anything happened to the old Major, Locksley would soon put his foot on us.” Thought Peter: “If ‘B’ Company weren’t so jolly good: and if we hadn’t made it ourselves: there might be something in a transfer.” But the evening had yet to provide its finale.

“Hallo, P.J.” interrupted a voice.

Peter looked up; saw the bow legs, the unpleasant features of Locksley-Jones. The fellow came over to the fire; stood with his back to it; said—taking no notice of Bromley—“Care for a drink, P.J.?”

“Thanks. No.”

“Devilish pretty woman you were talking to just now. Wish you’d introduce me, some time....” Peter did not answer: he thought, suddenly, of the tears in Bareton’s eyes.

“By the way,” went on Locksley, taking no notice of the snub, “have you chaps got a taxi? My car’s broken down. The magneto’s gone wrong, I believe. If you have, I’d like a lift....”

Bromley never moved.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, very politely, “but our taxi only holds two. However”—he glanced at his wrist-watch—“You’re in nice time for the last train.”

“That’s put the lid on it,” remarked Bromley in the darkness of the jolting car: and, just before they went to sleep, “Mark my words, there’ll be some trouble in this ruddy Battalion.”

There was!

Royal Field Artillery.