Mr. B., the second member of the mission, is in direct contrast, a birdlike little man, who twitters about the room, from group to group. You are our first representatives at the front, you know. Miller looks at me solemnly. Mr. C., the third member, is a silent man. He has keen, deep-set eyes.
Tea is served very informally.
Mr. A. is restless. He has something on his mind. Presently he turns to Lieutenant Talbott. In fancy, I hear a great shifting of chairs, and following the melancholy eyes with my own, over the heads of my ten fellow pilots, beyond the limits of our poor little mess-room, I see a long vista of polished shirt fronts, a diminishing track of snowy linen, shimmering wine glasses, shining silver. My friends, believe me when I say that this occasion is one of the proudest and happiest of my life.