It was all experimenting. And meanwhile he remained in
profile, with an air of assurance--like a man who sits in an automobile
after the chauffeur has had his directions.
And every one about him was the stronger and surer for that quiet face,
that air of knowledge and unruffled confidence. The clustering lights
threw a score of shadows of him upon the maps, great bunches of him,
versions of a commanding presence, lighter or darker, dominated the
field, and pointed in every direction. Those shadows symbolised his
control. When a messenger came from the wireless room to shift this or
that piece in the game, to replace under amended reports one Central
European regiment by a score, to draw back or thrust out or distribute
this or that force of the Allies, the Marshal would turn his head and
seem not to see, or look and nod slightly, as a master nods who approves
a pupil's self-correction. 'Yes, that's better.'
How wonderful he was, thought the woman at the window, how wonderful it
all was. This was the brain of the western world, this was Olympus with
the warring earth at its feet. And he was guiding France, France so long
a resentful exile from imperialism, back to her old predominance.
It seemed to her beyond the desert of a woman that she should be
privileged to participate.
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