Having taken a room at the hotel at which he had been instructed to stay, Smallwood went out; it was a lovely day, early in August, and the sun shone in an unclouded sky. He had not been to Lucerne since he was a boy, but remembered a covered bridge, though not clearly, a great stone lion and a church in which he had sat, bored yet impressed while they played an organ  ; and now wandering along a shady quay   he tried not so much to find his way about a half-forgotten scene as to reform in his mind some recollection of the shy and eager boy, so impatient for life, who so long ago had wandered there. But it seemed to him that the most lively of his memories was not of himself, but of the crowd; he seemed to remember the sun and the heat and the people; the train was crowded and so was the hotel, the lake steamers were packed and on the quays and in the streets you found your way among the holiday-makers. They were fat and old and ugly and strange. Now, in wartime, Lucerne was as deserted as it must have been before the world discovered that Switzerland was the play-ground of Europe. Most of the hotels were closed, the streets were empty, the boats for hire rocked   lazily at the water's edge and there was none to take them, and in the avenue by the lake the only persons to be seen were serious Swiss taking their dogs for their daily walk. Smallwood felt happy and, sitting down on a bench that faced the water, surrendered   himself to the feelings. The blue water, snowy mountains, and their beauty hit you in the face. So long, at all event, as the fine weather lasted he was prepared to enjoy himself. He didn't see why he should not at least try to combine pleasure to himself with advantage to his country. He felt that the city   _  .
was more crowded than it used to be had changed out of all recognition had been ruined by becoming an attraction was quieter than he remembered it