Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the middle of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga’s, the most fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates.
Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was trying to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot greeted him warmly.
“Terrific night,” he said; “rain coming down in buckets. Water running round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you’ll have to get out another cup. The Major’s coming to tea.”
“There isn’t a fourth cup,” said Miss Nelly. “You’ll have to drink out of a mug.”
“Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway.”
“All padres are greedy,” said Miss Nelly. “What’s bringing the Major here?”
“I’ve arranged a practice of the Christmas carols,” said Digby.
“Bother your old carols,” said Miss Nelly.
“Must have a practice,” said Digby. “You and Miss Willmot are all right; but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won’t do to break down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there’s something I want to speak to you about before the Major comes. There’s——”
“Before the Major comes, Nelly,” said Miss Willmot, “give me some tea. He always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through the first two before he arrives.”