“Any matches, Johnnie?”
John took a silver match-box from his pocket.
“Catch!”
Agatha caught it, and examined it with interest. It was a queer old box, much engraved, obviously not of English make or design.
“What a handsome box!”
“Loot, Aggie. It belonged to a Boche. He’d no further use for it.”
She struck a match and lit his pipe, which John smoked as if he enjoyed it. Agatha stepped back and regarded him attentively. He was just right, in her opinion: a man who had done “his bit,” the man of her delicate choice, likely to make a sober, hard-working husband, clever enough and not too clever, one to be gently pushed by capable hands on to fortune. Smiling complacently, she seated herself beside him. John slipped his one available arm round her shapely waist. She held the match-box in her hand.
“Put your dear head on my shoulder,” he commanded.
“On the village green?”
“On my shoulder, I said.”