The Colonel saw us through his window and waved his flute at us. When I went into the room, after a salute at the doorway, I saw that he had already littered it with artistic untidiness—sheets of torn music, water-colour sketches, books of poetry, and an array of splendid shining boots; of which a pair stood on the mahogany sideboard.
“A beautiful little passage this,” said Colonel Lavington, smiling at me over the flute, which he put to his lips again. He played a bar or two of old world melody, and said, “Isn’t that perfect? Can’t you see the little ladies in their puffed brocades and high-heeled shoes!”
He had his faun-like look, his clean-shaven face with long nose and thin, humorous mouth, lighted up by his dark smiling eyes.
“Not a bad headquarters,” he said, putting down the flute again. “If we can only stay here a little while, instead of having to jog on again. There’s an excellent piano in the dining-room—German, thank goodness—and Charles Fortune and I can really get down to some serious music.”
“How’s the war?” I asked.
“War?” he said, absent-mindedly. “Oh, yes, the war! That’s going on all right. They’ll be out of Tournai in a few days. Perhaps out of Maubeuge and Mons. Oh, the game’s up! Very soon the Intellectuals will be looking round for a living in dear old London. My goodness, some of us will find peace a difficult job! I can see Boredom approaching with its colossal shadow.... After all, it has been a great game, on the whole.”
I laughed, but something stuck in my throat. Colonel Lavington played the flute, but he knew his job, and was in touch with General Headquarters and all its secret information. It was obvious that he believed the war was going to end—soon. Soon, O Lord, after all the years of massacre.
I blurted out a straight question.
“Do you think there’s a real chance of Peace?”
The Colonel was reading a piece of music, humming it with a la, la, la.