"And like a good soul you are putting a few stitches to their clothes, eh?" the man went on, and jerked a grimy thumb in the direction of the pile of tunics.
"There's no one else to do it for them," the woman rejoined in the same toneless, listless voice.
"Rather a futile task," he rejoined drily. "What is a hole more or less in a tunic? How many of these fellows will come back from their raid to-morrow do you suppose? Most of these carefully mended tunics will supplement the meagre wardrobes of our friend Fritz over the way, I'm thinking."
"Perhaps," the woman assented with a weary sigh.
"How many of them are going to-morrow?" he asked.
"I don't know. All the men in this house are going."
"And how many will come back do you think?"
The woman shuddered and pressed her thin, colourless lips more tightly together. The Yank gave a harsh laugh and shrugged his lean shoulders.
"These English flying men are very daring," he said lightly; "even Fritz will admit that much. They'll take the maddest risks! I don't think that you will see many of these tunics back here at close of day to-morrow."
The woman, however, remained obstinately silent. Whilst Lucien threw himself into a broken-down armchair that groaned under his weight, she rose and gathered up the pile of tunics.