expression. He listened for a moment with a half-contemptuous smile, then frowned and began sketching in his map again. Something about his momentary glance of recognition made Claude wonder whether he had particular associations with the air, melancholy, but beautiful, Claude thought. He got up and went over to change the record himself this time. He took out the disk, and holding it up to the light, read the inscription: “Meditation from Thaïs—Violin solo—David Gerhardt.”
When they were going back along the communication trench in the rain, wading single file, Claude broke the silence abruptly. “That was one of your records they played tonight, that violin solo, wasn’t it?”
“Sounded like it. Now we go to the right. I always get lost here.”
“Are there many of your records?”
“Quite a number. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to write my mother. She’s fond of good music She’ll get your records, and it will sort of bring the whole thing closer to her, don’t you see?”
“All right, Claude,” said David good-naturedly. “She will find them in the catalogue, with my picture in uniform alongside. I had a lot made before I went out to Camp Dix. My own mother gets a little income from them. Here we are, at home.” As he struck a match two black shadows jumped from the table and disappeared behind the blankets. “Plenty of them around these wet nights. Get one? Don’t squash him in there. Here’s the sack.”
Gerhardt held open the mouth of a gunny sack, and Claude thrust the squirming corner of his blanket into it and vigorously trampled whatever fell to the bottom. “Where do you suppose the other is?”
