“Watching the Boches.”
“Exactly. Were the Boche a worthy foe, a foe who would respect his agreements, the need for watching him would not exist. But a foe who has broken his word, his bond and all the ten commandments is not to be trusted. I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way, but I have lived at the front for many months, Elfreda, and what I have seen has chilled my very soul. It behooves us Sammies to watch our steps and keep our hands on our guns,” she added after an interval of reflection. “I think our passenger is approaching.”
Mrs. Chadsey Smythe, clad in a suit of tight-fitting khaki, which accentuated her stoutness, was walking stiffly down the path from the cottage, followed by two welfare workers, discreetly keeping to the rear of their superior. The face of the meat-packer’s wife wore an expression of austerity which Grace told herself had been borrowed from some high army officer, an officer with a grouch of several years’ standing. Mrs. Smythe halted, eyeing first the car itself, then the two young women on the front seat, both of whom were gazing stolidly ahead.
“Are you the chauffeur?” she demanded, addressing Grace.
“I am Mrs. Grace Gray, Madame. I am driving this car through,” replied Grace courteously.
“A car, did you say? No, this is not a car, it is a truck, and a very dirty truck. I venture to say that it has not been washed in some time,” observed the welfare supervisor sarcastically.
“Quite probable, Mrs. Smythe. This is wartime, you know.”
“That is not an excuse. The war is ended. Hereafter you will see that the car is clean when you start out in the morning.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Another thing, driver, I do not brook impertinence from my subordinates. No matter how slack this department may have been carried on in the past, henceforth military form must be observed.”