“’Tis a queer cranky sort of body,” she remarked; “a bachelor man. What can you expect?”
Mrs. Bunce’s face was still pink with wrath, but she smiled upon the other woman.
“I should think your Jan did ought to come home soon now,” she said handsomely; gratitude for Mrs. Andrews’ timely sympathy causing her to be for the moment almost willing to admit there might be another soldier of some merit in the British Army besides Private William Bunce.
“I’m sure I hope so,” responded her neighbour rather dismally. “You are safe to get your husband back next week, anyhow.”
“Next week,” echoed Nellie Bunce joyfully. “Yes, he says in his last letter they was to start in a week, and I’ve a-counted up the time, and he did ought to land at Southampton Saturday week.”
“I d’ ’low ye’ll be busy gettin’ all ready for him,” said the older woman, falling into an easy attitude with her hands on her hips, the better to contemplate her pretty neighbour.
“I d’ ’low I be,” responded Nellie, enthusiastically. “I be goin’ to give en the best welcome I can, ye mid be sure. I be cleanin’ up the house fro’ top to bottom, and I be goin’ to paper the kitchen. I’ve bought paper already; I reckon I could easy do it myself; the wall aint so very high and the room bain’t too big neither.”
“’Tis a stiffish job for a woman though,” returned Mrs. Andrews, dubiously. “If Andrews wasn’t so bad with the lumbagey, I’d get en to lend ye a hand; but he’s that stiff, poor man, he can scarcely so much as turn hisself in bed.”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” returned Mrs. Bunce, nodding brightly. “I’m a great one for contrivin’, and ’t’ull be summat to tell Bill as I’ve a-done it myself.”
“It’ll take you all your time,” protested Mrs. Andrews, and they parted.