“Sure, it’s grand,” said Sergeant O’Rorke; “and there isn’t one only yourself, miss, who’d do all you be doing for the men.”
Miss Willmot’s eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her as a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom tried to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a thousand pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of bygone Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She was thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in the canteen—eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how well they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so much, borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot thanked God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men.
“Tea! tea! tea! Tea’s ready. Come along, Miss Willmot.”
The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a tall, fair girl in a long blue overall.
“I’ve made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby’s waiting.”
“Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you,” said Bates.
“If there’s a happy Christmas going these times at all,” said Sergeant O’Rorke, “it’s yourself deserves it.”
“Thank you, thank you both,” said Miss Willmot “If it hadn’t been for your help I’d never have got the decorations done at all.”
The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas afternoon.
She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her overall, stained and creased after a long day’s work, then she went into the kitchen.