Alan carried me off to tea the same evening in a town where he
seemed to know everybody. He had spent the afternoon on
another mountain top, inspecting gun positions; whereby he had
been shelled a little--_marmite_ is the slang for it. There
had been no serious _marmitage,_ and he had spotted a Boche
position which was _marmitable._
"And we may get shelled now," he added, hopefully. "They
shell this town whenever they think of it. Perhaps they'll
shell us at tea."
It was a quaintly beautiful little place, with its mixture of
French and German ideas; its old bridge and gentle-minded
river, between the cultivated hills. The sand-bagged cellar
doors, the ruined houses, and the holes in the pavement looked
as unreal as the violences of a cinema against that soft and
simple setting. The people were abroad in the streets, and
the little children were playing. A big shell gives notice
enough for one to get to shelter, if the shelter is near
enough. That appears to be as much as any one expects in the
world where one is shelled, and that world has settled down to
it. People's lips are a little firmer, the modelling of the
brows is a little more pronounced, and, maybe, there is a
change in the expression of the eyes; but nothing that a
casual afternoon caller need particularly notice.