The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, the
balladmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers! War brought
out all that was worst in them. But the givers of their blood, the lads
who suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry,
manhood. She heard no revilings of hatred and revenge from those drawn
lips. Patience, humour, forgiveness, they had learnt from war. They
told her kindly stories even of Hans and Fritz.
The little drummer in her brain would creep out of his corner, play to
her softly while she moved about among them.
One day she received a letter from Folk. He had come to London at the
request of the French Government to consult with English artists on a
matter he must not mention. He would not have the time, he told her, to
run down to Liverpool. Could she get a couple of days' leave and dine
with him in London.
She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel. He had quite a
military bearing and seemed pleased with himself. He kissed her hand,
and then held her out at arms' length.
"It's wonderful how like you are to your mother," he said, "I wish I were
as young as I feel.
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