I.
The scene was the comfortable spacious breakfast-room in the Bishop's Palace. His lordship sat nearest to the fire; the bishop's wife presided over the fragrant coffee-pot, and the curate, their dine-and-sleep guest, sat opposite the bishop and farthest from the warmth. As a curate this position was his due. Some day he also would be a bishop, and then he too would know what it was to intercept the glow.
The curate was looking dubiously into the recesses of an egg. His fine Anglican features underwent a series of contortions.
"I am afraid," said the bishop, "that that egg is not a good one."
"You are right, my lord," said the curate. " It is not only bad, it's alive. I think it's the worst egg that was ever offered me."
II.
The wounded soldier lay in his deck-chair placidly smoking his hundredth cigarette that day. He was not naturally a smoker, but cigarettes arrived in enormous numbers and something had to be done with them.
His visitor sat beside him, note-book in hand. "Yes?" he remarked.
"And then," said the soldier, "came the order to charge. We fixed bayonets and rushed at the Bosches like mad. It was glorious—like the best kind of football match."
The visitor took it all down, and more.