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‘Mine?’ He grins at her. ‘You queer old divert. What can make you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?’

‘He! he! he! he!’

‘I tell you, I’m the commonest kind of man.’

‘I’m just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.’

‘I’ve been a kick-about all my life, and I’m no great shakes at the war.’

‘Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?’

‘Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because they wanted my shirt.’

‘Your shirt?’

‘Well, they said it was their shirt.’

‘Have you took prisoners?’

‘I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.’

‘How could one man take half a dozen?’

‘Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.’

‘Kenneth, you’re just my ideal.’

‘You’re easily pleased.’

He turns again to the bed, ‘Let’s see how the thing works.’ He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so satisfactory that he puts down his kit.

‘Old lady, if you really want me, I’ll bide.’

‘Oh! oh! oh! oh!’

Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of warning.

‘But, mind you, I don’t accept you as a relation. For your personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; but the best I can say for you is that you’re on your probation. I’m a cautious character, and we must see how you’ll turn out.’

‘Yes, Kenneth.’

‘And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at six-thirty. A cove I met on a ‘bus is going with me.’

She is a little alarmed.

‘You’re sure you’ll come back?’

‘Yes, yes,’ handsomely, ‘I leave my kit in pledge.’

‘You won’t liquor up too freely, Kenneth?’

‘You’re the first,’ chuckling, ‘to care whether I do or not.’ Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this. ‘I promise. Tod, I’m beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, “Get up, you lazy swine.” I’ve kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the right to say that.’

He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him.

‘What is it, Kenneth?’

‘The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.’

Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast.

‘Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don’t keep me on the jumps.’

He turns her round.

‘No, It couldn’t be done.’

‘Was it me you were thinking of?’

‘Just for the moment,’ regretfully, ‘but you have no style.’

She catches hold of him by the sleeve.

‘Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! It’s laced up the back in the very latest.’

‘Hum,’ doubtfully; ‘but let’s see it.’

It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.

‘Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It’s not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it’s chiffon.’

‘I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.’

‘Ay, ay.’ He considers. ‘Do you think you could give your face less of a homely look?’

‘I’m sure I could.’

‘Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will depend on the effect.’

He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling.

* * * * *

One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham are in Mrs. Dowey’s house, awaiting that lady’s return from some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the first words we catch are: