Half-past six, then!" They departed.

As she went out of the door she turned and gave me a little happy smile as though to bind me to an intimate enduring confidence.

I smiled back at her and she was gone.
After they had left me I felt very lonely.

The house was still and desolate, and I took a book that I had brought with me--the "Le Deuil des Primeveres" of Francois Jammes.

I had learnt the habit during my first visit to the war of always taking a book in my pocket when engaged upon any business; there were so many long weary hours of waiting when the nerves were stretched, and a book--quiet and real and something apart from all wars and all rumours of wars--was a most serious necessity.