"Back from the trenches?" she enquired.
"Back for a month's rest," Bowdy replied.
"I s'pose you're married now, Fifi?" Bubb remarked, fixing his eyes on the girl. She did indeed look like a married woman; the old sprightly manner was gone; her face was pale and quiet now, and a tinge of sadness had crept into her voice. The old Fifi, the full-throated coquette of eighteen months ago, had given place to a prudent housewife whose interests did not extend beyond the marches of the farm.
"I am married," she replied.
"A good husband?" asked Bubb.
"Très bon," said Fifi. "He will be in from his work directly."
"Ye've forgotten Fitzgerald, the Irishman," said Bubb. "'E was a good man. 'E's dead now; killed by an oboo grand."
Fifi chuckled. Bubb looked at Bowdy and could not resist giving expression to the thoughts which came into his mind.
"It's just like these 'ere French birds," he muttered. "They'll 'ave their bit of fun wiv a bloke an' then when 'e goes away it's 'Goodbye and be damned t'yer, and we don't care wot 'appens t'yer.'"
Fifi, who seemed to have made great progress in her knowledge of English, laughly loudly at Bubb's remarks. Then she raised a warning finger. Somebody had come to the door and this somebody was rubbing heavy boots on the cobbles in an endeavour to get the dirt from the soles.