[CHAPTER VIII]
THE MODERN CALVARY
I
One day, not long after our visit to the battlefield, our composure was riven to its very foundations by an invitation to play croquet in the garden of Madame G. Could we spare an hour from our so arduous toil? For her it would be a pleasure so great, the English they love "le sport," they play all the games, we would show her the English way. Monsieur her husband he adored croquet, but never, never could he find any one to play with him. Madame, a little swarthy woman who always dressed in rusty black, clasped her shiny kid gloves together and gazed at us beseechingly. The Arbiter of our destinies decided that we must go. There is always l'Entente, you know, it should be encouraged at all hazards, a sentiment which meets with my fullest approval when the hazard does not happen to be mine.
Madame yearned that we should throw ourselves into "le sport" at four, but the devil of malice, who sits so persistently on my shoulder, arranged that I should be the only one free at that hour. The others promised to come at half-past four.
"But, my dear women," I cried, "I haven't played croquet for ages."
"Never mind. Hit something, do anything. But go."