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‘What was you to trade?’

‘Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.’

‘You’re a proper man to look at.’

‘I’m generally admired.’

‘She’s an enviable woman.’

‘Who?’

‘Your mother.’

‘Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.’ Bitterly, ‘This party never even knew who his proud parents were.’

‘Is that’–gleaming–‘is that true?’

‘It’s gospel.’

‘Heaven be praised!’

‘Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don’t think you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.’

‘I daresay it’s true we’ll never meet again, Kenneth, but–but if we do, I wonder where it will be?’

‘Not in this world.’

‘There’s no telling’–leering ingratiatingly–‘It might be at Berlin.’

‘Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I’ll find you there waiting for me!’

‘With a cup of tea for you in my hand.’

‘Yes, and’–heartily–‘very good tea too.’

He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour.

‘Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!’

‘All the ladies,’ slapping his knees, ‘likes to go to Paris.’

‘Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!’

‘You’re all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.’ He sings:

‘Mrs. Gill is very ill,
Nothing can improve her
But to see the Tuileries
And waddle through the Louvre.’

No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, she cries:

‘You must learn me that,’ and off she goes in song also:

‘Mrs. Dowey’s very ill,
Nothing can improve her.’

‘Stop!’ cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse:

‘But dressed up in a Paris gown
To waddle through the Louvre.’

They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She says ecstatically:

‘Hairy legs!’

A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what she is.

‘Mind your manners!’ Rising, ‘Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.’

Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit.

‘Where are you living?’

He sighs.

‘That’s the question. But there’s a place called The Hut, where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They’ll take me in. Beggars,’ bitterly, ‘can’t be choosers.’

‘Beggars?’

‘I’ve never been here before. If you knew’–a shadow coming over him–‘what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to be back in the trenches.’

‘If you knew,’ he has said, but indeed the old lady knows.

‘That’s my quandorum too, Kenneth.’

He nods sympathetically.

‘I’m sorry for you, you poor old body,’ shouldering his kit. ‘But I see no way out for either of us.’

A cooing voice says, ‘Do you not?’

‘Are you at it again!’

She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes.

‘Kenneth, I’ve heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.’

‘You never heard anything truer.’

‘Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the dresser-top, and tell me what you see.’

He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed.

‘It’s a kind of a bath!’

‘You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.’

‘Me?’

‘There’s a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.’

He snorts.

‘Oh, is there!’

She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun.

‘Kenneth, look!’

With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills.

‘My word! That’s the dodge we need in the trenches.’

‘That’s your bed, Kenneth.’