The Triad came into my life as I walked underneath the arch by which the sentinels sit in Olympian state upon their rather long-legged chargers, receiving, as is their due, the silent homage of the passing nurserymaids. The soldier in the middle was straight back from the front. The mud of Flanders clung to his boots and clothes. It was “deeched” into his skin, and round his eyes had left a stain so dark, it looked as if he had been painted for a theatrical make-up. Upon his puttees it had dried so thickly that you could scarcely see the folds. He bore upon his back his knapsack, carried his rifle in his hand all done up in a case, which gave it, as it seemed to me, a look of hidden power, making it more terrible to think of than if it had shone brightly in the sun. His water-bottle and a pack of some kind hung at his sides, and as he walked kept time to every step. Under his elbow protruded the shaft of something, perhaps an entrenching tool of some sort, or perhaps some weapon strange to civilians accustomed to the use of stick or umbrella as their only arm. In himself he seemed a walking arsenal, carrying his weapons and his baggage on his back, after the fashion of a Roman legionary. The man himself, before the hand of discipline had fashioned him to number something or another, must have looked fresh and youthful, not very different from a thousand others that in time of peace one sees in early morning going to fulfil one of those avocations without which no State can possibly endure, and yet are practically unknown to those who live in the vast stucco hives either of Belgravia or Mayfair.

He may have been some five-and-twenty, and was a Londoner or a man from the home counties lying round about. His sunburnt face was yet not sunburnt as is the face of one accustomed to the weather all his life. Recent exposure had made his skin all feverish, and his blue eyes were fixed, as often are the eyes of sailors or frontiersmen after a long watch.

The girls on either side of him clung to his arm with pride, and with an air of evident affection, that left them quite unconscious of everything but having got the beloved object of their care safe home again. Upon the right side, holding fast to the warrior’s arm, and now and then nestling close to his side, walked his sweetheart, a dark-haired girl, dressed in the miserable cheap finery our poorer countrywomen wear, instead of well-made plainer clothes that certainly would cost them less and set them off a hundredfold the more. Now and again she pointed out some feature of the town with pride, as when they climbed the steps under the column on which stands the statue of the Duke of York. The soldier, without looking, answered, “I know, Ethel, Dook of York,” and hitched his pack a little higher on his back.

His sister, hanging on his left arm, never said anything, but walked along as in a dream; and he, knowing that she was there and understood, spoke little to her, except to murmur “Good old Gladys” now and then, and press her to his side. As they passed by the stunted monument, on which the crowd of little figures standing round a sledge commemorates the Franklin Expedition, in a chill Arctic way, the girl upon the right jerked her head towards it and said, “That’s Sir John Franklin, George, he as laid down his life to find the North-West Passage, one of our ’eroes, you remember ’im.” To which he answered, “Oh yes, Frenklin”; then looking over at the statue of Commander Scott, added, “’ee done his bit too,” with an appreciative air. They gazed upon the AthenÆum and the other clubs with that air of detachment that all Englishmen affect when they behold a building or a monument—taking it, as it seems to me, as something they have no concern with, just as if it stood in Petrograd or in Johannesburg.

The homing triad passed into Pall Mall, oblivious of the world, so lost in happiness that they appeared the only living people in the street. The sister, who had said so little, when she saw her brother shift his knapsack, asked him to let her carry it. He smiled, and knowing what she felt, handed his rifle to her, remarking, “’Old it the right side up, old girl, or else it will go off.”

And so they took their way through the enchanted streets, not feeling either the penetrating wind or the fine rain, for these are but material things, and they were wrapped apart from the whole world. Officers of all ranks passed by them, some young and smart, and others paunchy and middle-aged; but they were non-existent to the soldier, who saw nothing but the girls. Most of the officers looked straight before them, with an indulgent air; but two young men with red bands round their caps were scandalised, and muttering something as to the discipline of the New Army, drew themselves up stiffly and strutted off, like angry game-cocks when they eye each other in the ring.

The triad passed the Rag, and on the steps stood two old colonels, their faces burnt the colour of a brick, and their moustaches stiff as the bristles of a brush. They eyed the passing little show, and looking at each other broke into a smile. They knew that they would never walk oblivious of mankind, linked to a woman’s arm; but perhaps memories of what they had done stirred in their hearts, for both of them at the same moment ejaculated a modulated “Ha!” of sympathy. All this time I had walked behind the three young people, unconsciously, as I was going the same road, catching half phrases now and then, which I was half ashamed to hear.

They reached the corner of St. James’s Square, and our paths separated. Mine took me to the London Library to change a book, and theirs led straight to Elysium, for five long days.