Page:War's dark frame (IA warsdarkframe00camp).pdf/53

Rh tion should have no more beautiful object than the release of a man to become, let us say, like one of these maimed fellows who somehow managed to colour their invalid pallor with smiles for us.

At every turning the sign posts of a social change meet you. I remember a middle-aged woman in black who rode ahead of me one afternoon on the top of a bus. A newsboy in Haymarket burst the bounds of propriety with a strident yell. We all had a partial glimpse of the poster in his hand, announcing the sinking of a British ship.

The woman, who in peace times, you felt, would have been in an automobile, turned to me with a cry of fright.

“Did you see the name of the ship?" she asked. "I couldn't."

I had noticed one of the posters just before mounting the bus.

"It's the Blank," I answered. " She was sunk in the Mediterranean."

The colour rushed back to her face. The sharp anxiety faded from her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, and turned away.

After a moment she looked back. It was evident she felt the need of an explanation.

"You see," she said, "I have lost my brother