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I've known her to help a drunken Tommy into a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw her once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn't know what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed, and get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She'd give away her last penny, and you wouldn't know she'd done it.
And is there not a corner of my memory for the crawling fusty leave-train that had bare planks nailed across the door spaces of some of the "officers'" compartments; a train so packed that we three officers took turns on the one spare seat in an "other ranks" carriage?
"Au revoir." she said to him, "never fear, you and I will meet very soon again!" With that she was gone. Desmond looked at his watch. It pointed to a quarter to six. "Now I wonder what time the leave-train starts tonight," he said aloud, one foot on the sideboard of the taxi. "At 7.45, sir," said a voice. "Desmond glanced round him. Then he saw it was the taxi-driver who had spoken.
And already during her short career in London she had had good reason to learn the sacredness of the leave-train. Fantastic tales she had heard of capital executions for what seemed trifling laxities tales whispered half proudly by the army in the rooms of horrified courtesans tales in which the remote and ruthless imagined figure of the Grand Provost-Marshal rivalled that of God himself.
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