Dazed for want of sleep, begrimed and besmeared with the very mud of the trenches, they flung themselves upon the nearest ottoman or couch, or in some out-of-the-way place upon the floor, to snatch a few hours’ sleep in comparative comfort.
One evening, when strolling round the rooms some time after the place had been closed, I found myself looking at the watchmen, who were busily engaged sweeping the floors. The chief among them, an old and valued servant, possessing a disposition that generally enabled him to look upon the bright side of things—although he was so often constrained to view them only during the sombre hours of the night—caught me gazing at him.
With a face I thought unusually grave he bade me “Good-evening,” and ruefully remarked, “It seems to me, sir, some of this dirt has come a long way.” Then, pondering for a while, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, he resumed, “Yes, sir, some of it from the very trenches.” And I somehow believed the old fellow was right.
CHAPTER XLVII
Three heroes of the war: Nurse Cavell, Jack Cornwell, V.C., and Captain Fryatt—Lords Roberts and Kitchener—Queen Alexandra’s stick and violets—The Duke of Norfolk’s tip.
There are three figures, added during the past few momentous years, which possess the rare distinction of being models of abiding interest. Out of the many portraits placed in the Exhibition, there are few that stay there very long.
EDITH CAVELL, THE MARTYR NURSE