that eternity of two minutes' silence outside, meeting the vacuum of that great stillness within her tender bosom. Her heart had broken under the strain.
The mother heart in the crowd gave a responsive sob. There was an audible clutch in the throat of the entire multitude. A child emitted a frightened whimper.... The King's trumpeters were sounding "The Last Post."
It was over—thank God!
The King is driving away. The soldiers are marching away. The mothers are going back to their sonless homes, refreshed and respirited. Have no fear—England is going on and on, and ON!
Allegro
It is noon of Armistice Day, perhaps an hour or so after the great silence. There are all sorts and conditions of men in the big Soho restaurant we enter for luncheon. There are "gentlemen" and others—meaning the same, except for the accident of birth. But to-day that great leveler, War, with some of its glamour and gruesomeness is in the air. The war that made Tommy Atkins of Whitechapel and Sir Major Somebody of Portman Square equals and brothers under their skins—lying out there in the field waiting for the stretcher bearers.
