At eight they leave the trenches along the Aisne and by noon arrive at Maxim's, Voisin's, or La Rue's.

Seldom does warfare present a sharper contrast.

From a breakfast of "bully" beef, eaten from a tin plate, with in their nostrils the smell of camp-fires, dead horses, and unwashed bodies, they find themselves seated on red velvet cushions, surrounded by mirrors and walls of white and gold, and spread before them the most immaculate silver, linen, and glass.

And the odors that assail them are those of truffles, white wine, and "artechant sauce mousseline." It is a delight to hear them talk.

The point of view of the English is so sane and fair.