"Well, take last night, for instance," said Bindle. "We was talkin' about the German Corpse Factory. I'd been readin' to 'er from the paper 'ow they turned the poor devils wot 'ad died doin' their bit to kill our chaps into marjarine, candles, oils for motor-cars, and that sort o' stuff. We was 'aving supper an' I 'appens to say quite innocent like: 'If you an' me was 'Uns, Lizzie and poor ole 'Earty 'ad died for 'is country, a thing wot 'Earty never will do if 'e can 'elp it, we might be a'spreadin' of 'im on this 'ere bread, and that there candle might be a bit of 'Earty an' us not knowin' it.' Well, there ain't much 'arm in that miss, is there? Yet she said I'd spoilt 'er supper, an' she pushed the salmon away from 'er an' said I wasn't fit to live with, an' that I'd got a dirty mind."
"J.B.," said Windover. "My sympathies are entirely with Mrs. Bindle. Your remark was extremely inappropriate."
Bindle looked round him from one to another. "Well, sir," he expostulated, "wasn't I right?"
"It was not a question of right, J.B.," said Windover, with mock severity. "It was a question of tact."
"Tack!" said Bindle. "'Adn't I taken 'ome a tin of salmon, and when the breeze started didn't I whistle 'er favourite 'ymn Gospel Bells? Look 'ere, sir, I ain't got much to learn in the way of tack wi' women."
"You see," said Sallie gently, "a remark like that sometimes turns people against their food."
"Yes, miss," said Bindle, "that may be; but if you're a German you never know what you're spreadin' on your bread. It may be your uncle, or it may be somebody else's uncle, an' that's worse still."
"Mr. Bindle," cried Sallie, "if you say another word about anything so horrible I shall—I shall—well, I shall drive on and leave you alone in the field."
"I'm sorry, miss," said Bindle with great seriousness. "I didn't know that you—that you——"
"That I was like Mrs. Bindle," interpolated Sallie.