"
At six o'clock we sat down to dine.
Our brightly burnished mess-tin lids were laid on the table, a neatly
folded khaki handkerchief in front of each for serviette. Clean towels
served for tablecloths, flowers--tiger-lilies, snapdragons, pinks,
poppies, roses, and cornflowers rioted in colour over the rim of a
looted vase. In solitary state a bottle of wine stood beside the flowers,
and a box of cigars, the gift of a girl friend, with the lid open (p. 122)
disclosed the dusky beauties within. The menu, Pryor's masterpiece,
stood on a wire stand, the work of Mervin.
Goliath seated at the table, was smiles all over, in fact, he was one
massive good humoured smile, geniality personified.
"Anything fresh from the seat of war?" he asked, as he waited for the
soup.
"According to the latest reports," Pryor answered, "we've gained an
inch in the Dardanelles and captured three trenches in Flanders. We
were forced to evacuate two of these afterwards."
"We miscalculated the enemy's strength, of course," said Mervin.
"That's it," Pryor cut in. "But the trenches we lost were of no
strategic importance."
"They never are," said Kore. "I suppose that's why we lose thousands
to take 'em, and the enemy lose as many to regain them."
"Soup, gentlemen," Stoner interrupted, bringing a steaming tureen to
the table. "Help yourselves."
"Mulligatawny?" said Pryor sipping the stuff which he had emptied into
his mess-tin, "I don't like this.
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