“Not ’arf,” said the girl philosophically. “But there! it ain’t so bad for us ’s what it is for them boys in the trenches.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Pettigrew archly. “Them boys—’im, you means.”
The girl shook her head swiftly. Seen in the gleam of a passing lamp, her face was pretty, and glistening with rain. “Not me,” she said. “There was two—my brothers—but they went West. There’s only me left ... carryin’ on.” The bus lurched violently, causing the little conductress to lose her balance, and her weight rested momentarily against Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder. She recovered her equilibrium instantly without self-consciousness, and stood looking absently ahead into the darkness.
“That’s what we’ve all got to do, ain’t it?” she said—“do our bit....”
She jingled the coppers in her bag, and turned abruptly.
Mr. Pettigrew watched the trim, self-respecting little figure till it vanished down the steps.
“Oh ’ell!” he groaned, as imperious flesh and immortal spirit awoke to renew the unending combat.
Five minutes later the conductress reappeared at Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder.
“Waterloo,” she said. “That’s where all you boys gets off, ain’t it ...? You’re for Portsmouth, I s’pose?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Pettigrew. He jerked to his feet, gripping his bundle, and made for the steps with averted head. “’Night,” he said brusquely. The bus slowed and stopped.