"There seems to me," said the little postman, "a curious unreality about yesterday and today—something in the cloudless peace overhead that troubles men."
Being no more and no less poet than are all French peasants, this analysis sufficed him. He touched his képi; the young men lifted their hats, and the postman pedaled away down the spotless military road.
Warner glanced at the envelope in his hand; Halkett looked at it, too. It was addressed in red ink.
"It's for me, old chap," said the Englishman.
The other glanced up, surprised.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite—if you don't mind trusting me."
Warner laughed and handed him the letter.
"It's addressed very plainly to me," he said. "You've got your nerve with you, Halkett."
"I have to keep it about me, old chap."