"Why, Bob, old boy!"
"Dennis, dear old man! This is a bit of luck! How are you?"
"Top-hole!" laughed the new-comer, beaming all over his face, which was a clean-shaven, boyish reproduction of his brother's, brown as a berry from the arduous training he had undergone with the Artists', and, breaking loose from Bob's grip, he kissed his mother tenderly.
"You got my wire, dear little mater, but you didn't expect me so soon. It is good to be home again, even if it's only 'How d'you do?' and 'Bye-bye.' But isn't it fine putting me in Bob's battalion? How are the kids? And, I say, mater, is there any grub going? I didn't wait for breakfast before I left, and I'm hungry as a hunter."
The wounded Belgian lieutenant in the adjoining room bit his lips as he overheard the joyful greetings. The rain had cleared, and as he stood looking out where the trim lawn sloped down to the water, he saw a couple of English Tommies in hospital blue sculling round one of the tufted islets.
"Dennis, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Van Drissel, of the Belgian army," said Bob, coming in as Van Drissel turned round. "This is my brother whom we have been talking about," and the two shook hands.
"Glad to meet you," said Dennis frankly.
"Lucky bargee," smiled Van Drissel. "Isn't that right?"
"Ah, you speak English? Yes, it is quite right. I am," laughed Dennis.
"He speaks everything under the sun," said his brother. "And, by the way, Dennis is a great stunt on languages. You two will be able to make us feel thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. My regular verbs are as rusty as a trench button."