The most stupendous and heart-breaking folly of our times drew towards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit was stationed at St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very humble, seemed like paradise after the dug-outs.
A morning came when a handful of the members were together in the coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was principally composed of damp brushwood. At one moment the guns could be heard distinctly, the next, something almost unnatural had happened—there was silence, as though death had turned on himself, smiting his own power of destruction. No one spoke, they just sat and stared at each other with faces entirely devoid of emotion; their faces looked blank, like so many masks from which had been sponged every trace of expression—and they waited—listening to that silence.
The door opened and in walked an untidy Poilu; his manner was casual, his voice apathetic: ‘Eh bien, mesdames, c’est l’Armistice.’ But his shining brown eyes were not at all apathetic. ‘Oui, c’est l’Armistice,’ he repeated coolly; then he shrugged, as a man might do who would say: ‘What is all this to me?’ After which he grinned broadly in spite of himself, he was still very young, and turning on his heel he departed.
Stephen said: ‘So it’s over,’ and she looked at Mary, who had jumped up, and was looking in her turn at Stephen.
Mary said: ‘This means . . .’ but she stopped abruptly.
Bless said: ‘Got a match, anyone? Oh thanks!’ And she groped for her white metal cigarette case.
Howard said: ‘Well, the first thing I’m going to do is to get my hair properly shampooed in Paris.’
Thurloe laughed shrilly, then she started to whistle, kicking the recalcitrant fire as she did so.
But funny, old, monosyllabic Blakeney with her curly white hair cropped as close as an Uhlan’s—Blakeney who had long ago done with emotions—quite suddenly laid her arms on the table and her head on her arms, and she wept, and she wept.