TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

Givenchy trenches. He was a sturdy little public-
school boy who made no secret of his desire to avoid
appearing in the Roll of Honour. He wanted life,
and he appeared capable of making good use of it, if
allowed the opportunity. Dick remained silent; he
usually kept his thoughts to himself, confirming other
people's opinions with one of his brilliant smiles and
the trustful look which he carried in his grey eyes.
Julian Durley, too contented for speech, stretched his
hands toward the blazing wood fire which crackled
cheerfully while the wind blustered comfortably
around the cottage.

We were all five of us sitting round the fire in my
billet, which had a good open grate, a few pieces of
old furniture, and a clock which ticked sedately, as if
there were no war on. The owner of the cottage was
with the French army. There wasn't a man in the
village under forty, and most of them looked gaffers
of seventy. They complained that the Battalion was
burning all their wood, but firewood was plentiful,
since the village was only half a mile from a small
forest, and there were trees all round it. This, and
its rural remoteness, gave it an air of avoiding con-
scription. While we were sitting there, my servant
Flook (who had been a railway signalman in Lanca-
shire) blundered in at the door with a huge sack of
firewood, which he dropped on the tiled floor with a
gasp of relief and an exclamation, in the war jargon
which is so difficult to remember, which made us all
laugh. He explained that the people had been
playing up hell to the Interpreter, so he'd slipped
round to an adjacent woodstack as soon as it was dark
to get some more of the "stoof" before the trouble
began. Having emptied the sack in a corner he went
out for another cargo.

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