“What I would like more nor any earthly thing,” said Bill emphatically, but with a twinkle in his eye, “is just ’taters—’taters done wi’ a bit o’ drippin’, hot and tasty, the way you did often do ’em.”
Nellie drew a long breath of relief.
“Them’s easy got,” she said jubilantly, but almost immediately her face fell again. “It do seem a poor kind o’ welcome,” she murmured, “and I——”
Private Bunce deposited his son and heir upon the floor, the better to bestow a really satisfactory embrace upon the little sunburnt woman. She was exceedingly damp and smelt very strongly of soap, but he did not seem to mind.
“Now, look here,” he said, “you couldn’t give I a better welcome nor what you’ve a-done. This here’s home—home as I did so often think of and long for; and here you be, my wold ’ooman, lookin’ just same as ever—just same as I so often seed ye in my mind, and I used to dream about ye many a time, and wake up and find mysel’ lyin’ on the sand. This here’s home and this here’s my little ’ooman—and I don’t want nothin’ else, wi’out it’s this young shaver,” he added as an after-thought.
And so, while the wash-tub steamed away unheeded in the back premises, a very merry party sat down to an impromptu meal. The ’taters were duly set forth, and Nellie, cleaned up and tidy, poured out tea, and Private Bunce cut huge slices from the crusty loaf, and declared he hadn’t had such a blow-out, no, not since he sailed from Southampton.
“To my mind, Nellie,” he cried presently, “the room do seem to look more cheerful-like wi’out the winder curtains. A body notices the paper more—the dear old paper what I did stick up for ’ee myself.”
Nellie opened her mouth as though to speak, but changed her mind and closed it again.
“I tell you what it is,” cried Private Bunce enthusiastically, “the place wouldn’t look itself wi’out that wall-paper. I wouldn’t have it changed for anything.”
Then Nellie burst out laughing and clapped her hands.