She glanced at the communication cord—it was on the distant side of the carriage. Why she should have been afraid of him she could not tell, yet she felt as though she had never been in such danger in her life as when he took the seat opposite to her.
'I am General Matravers,' he repeated. 'You have heard of me, perhaps?'
'But naturally,' she assented. 'We have all read of your wonderful exploits at Mons.'
He moistened his lips with his tongue. His face seemed curiously dried up, his eyes were hard, his features grim and bony. He presented somehow a queer impression of lifelessness.
'Mons!' he muttered ruminatingly. 'You've never been to Hell, have you, young lady?'
'Not yet,' she answered, watching him closely.
'That was the beginning of it,' he went on. 'We need a Dante, young lady, to sing to us of those days, when the winds were driven from the face of the earth by the screeching of the shells and the roar and the clash of the guns, and they seemed to be always nearer.... Every foot of ground was red with blood, the blood of our dear soldiers, and one thought of the people at home.... I know men who lost their reason at Mons.'
'It must have been terrible,' she faltered.
He sat opposite to her, nervously opening and closing the interlocked fingers of his hands.
'You know why I am coming home?' he asked abruptly. 'Medals enough here, you see, for a field-marshal, and I am sent home in disgrace.'