an overwhelming impression of a vast and complex organisation
that your thought rushes instantly to the supreme controller of that
organisation, the man ultimately responsible for all of it. He does not
make himself invisible. It becomes known that he will see you at a
certain hour. You arrive a few minutes before that hour. The building
is spacious, and its Gallic aspect is intensified by the pure Anglo-
Saxonism of its terrific inhabitants. In a large outer office you are
presented to the various brains of the Expeditionary Force, all
members of the General Staff--famous names among them, celebrities,
specialists, illustrious with long renown. They walk in and out,
and they sit smoking and chatting, as if none of them was anybody
in particular. And as a fact, you find it a little difficult to
appreciate them at their lawful worth, because you are aware that in
the next room, behind those double doors, is he at whose nod the
greatest among them tremble.

"The Commander-in-Chief will see you." You go forward, and I defy
you not to be daunted.

The inner chamber has been a drawing-room. It still is partially a
drawing-room. The silk panels on the walls have remained, and in
one corner a grand piano lingers. In the middle is a plain table
bearing a map on a huge scale. There he is, the legendary figure.
You at last have proof that he exists. He comes towards the door to
meet you. A thick-set man, not tall, with small hands and feet, and
finger-nails full of character. He has a short white moustache, and
very light-coloured eyes set in a ruddy complexion. His chin is
noticeable. He is not a bit dandiacal. He speaks quietly and grimly
and reflectively. He is a preoccupied man. He walks a little to and
fro, pausing between his short, sparse sentences. When he talks of