"Stafford drove me over to the Wireless Station," Keefe said importantly. "We thought some news might be in. And now we've come to help. I'll sit here near you, Mrs. Weston."
"I think they're so squashed probably they won't prick," said Mrs. Weston thoughtfully. "Oh, they did"—for Mr. Keefe got up hurriedly. "I'll hold the board if you finish the text. I am all sore."
Violet Weston was aggressively, brightly pretty in her light-coloured frieze skirt and jersey, with vermilion silk stockings framed by ultra-smart shoes. She was painted and thickly powdered, and told everyone her fringe was false; but something in her light-hearted good-humour made her difficult to resist.
Everyone's feet were lumps of ice, everyone's faces had flushed from hot tea and lack of air; sneezes not entirely born of fluff peppered the conversation.
The Vicar at some length put forward a plan of campaign which must end the war in a month. It included the crossing of the Rhine, a march into Berlin, and the permanent imprisonment of the Kaiser on Spike Island.
Mrs. Keefe then thought if there were more like her Albert at the front—he was called after the Prince of Wales—no, of course, the Prince Consort—who used their brains instead of merely running in and out of ditches, that the awful loss of life would soon end. In fact, Albert had volunteered to go as chaplain, and he might be attended to then.
The black back trail of the war was gone over many times—the great hopes which had fallen so heavily—Antwerp, which men said could hold out for six months.
"Betrayed by spies," said the Vicar bitterly. He went on to remark that man of God as he was, he would himself shoot a spy without compunction.
"After he had said a prayer, of course," temporized his wife soothingly.
The Rev. Albert Keefe did not reply. He came of a fighting race.