"Look!" whispered Bubb, as the two got near the door. "There's Fifi. Gawd! She 'asn't 'arf changed.... Stout.... She must be married."
They entered. Fifi rushed forward to meet them, and clasping Bubb with both arms she kissed him on the lips. Then she kissed Bowdy, who blushed as red as a beetroot.
"Well, I'm damned," said Bubb. "Ye're not 'arf a giddy one, Fifi."
She must have been working hard during the day, for her hair was all untidy, her linen soiled and stained, her skirts in the same condition.
"Back from the trenches?" she asked.
"Back again," said Bubb who could follow the remark, though spoken in French. "Trenches no bong," he said. "Ploosier mon camerads mort, more blissée. Guerre never fini."
"The sergen, is zee dead?" asked Fifi, speaking in English. "The bon sergen."
"'E's dead," said Bubb. "Also Flanagan; also Captain Thorley...."
"Mon père mort," said the girl, and her eyes filled with tears. "Mort à Verdun."
There was a long silence. The two soldiers sat down near the stove. Fifi put a basin of soup over the fire. Madame Babette came in from the byre, her heavy shoes covered with cow-dung, and placed a pail of milk on the dresser. She shook hands with Bubb and Bowdy.