"Perhaps the war will soon be over; the papers say the morale of the German troops is deteriorating," said Mrs. Gilpin hopefully; conversation languished until we arrived.
All the coldness and greyness of the morning seemed concentrated in that little station. It was heart-breaking; and the mess band blaring out "Soldiers of the King" seemed to accentuate the dreariness.
The battery had answered the roll-call; when we arrived they stood in little groups, some of them sitting on their kit-bags, the tin bullet-proof helmets that had been served out the previous day hanging from their haversacks.
"There's Captain Markham," said Grace. "There's Mr. Wood and Connel; there's Colonel and Mrs. Walters, and there's your father. I don't see Captain Cromer, Pam."
"I—I expect he'll be here," I answered foolishly.
We passed through the gate on to the platform; the little group of women outside the barrier watched us enviously.
I was shivering and my teeth were chattering—the silence was so uncanny. It was as if all those women outside and the men on the platform were waiting for a miracle to happen and deliver them from the necessity to face the immediate future.
Father was much in evidence. He came up and spoke to us, and then bustled off again.
I turned to see Cheneston and his orderly beside me.
"Morning," he said; he, too, was pale, but smiling. He turned aside to speak to Grace.