It was a blazing hot morning and the air quivered, like a silver curtain before our eyes, separating us from the dim blue forest of S---- beyond the river, the Nestor itself, the deep green slopes of our own hill.

We had been silent, then Trenchard said a foolish thing: "War brings all the best out of people, I think," he said.

God knows what private line of thought he had been pursuing, some sentimental reflections, I suppose, that were in him perfectly honest and sincere.

But he did not look his best that morning, sitting back in his chair with his mouth open, his forehead damp with the heat, his tunic up about his neck and a rather dirty blue pocket-handkerchief in his hand.
I saw Semyonov's lip curl.
"Yes.

That's very interesting, Mr.," he said.