Faces turned from each side of the long mess-table towards us. The babel of talk died down. There was a scraping of chairs on the scrubbed floor. A girl jumped up and fetched cups; another pushed aside one of the glass gallipots that held sheaves of blue-bells and marsh-yellows all down the table.
"That's right. You sit here, will you? Room for a little one!"—the little one being Elizabeth, who seemed to have shrunk since she put on breeches, into some small, shock-headed, pale and defensive boy. "And you, Vic, look after this other one."
"What's your name?" from the forewoman.
"Matthews? Joan Matthews! Sit down, Joan; have your tea. There's plenty more milk in the big jug; and pass up that bit of rhubarb pie for them. They're all the way from London."
"London!" chorused the girls at the table in a variety of voices.
"London, fancy!"
"Eustern! All change! Stand clear o' the gates!" sang out one, in gruff imitation. "Air-raid shelter this way! Full up, full up! Pass along there."
"Piccadilly, theatres and shops!"
"Bond-street!"
"'Igh-street!"