"Yes, but that's a thing of the past," said Fitzgerald. "I did go into a pub when I was in London. I wanted to have a yarn with the Old Sweats who frequented the taproom. I made them merry and they carried me home. 'Twasn't honey after that. Old Fitz, the boy who had been through the thick of it and who had done his bit, was rather a burden to his friends. He had wild ways; his manners were unbecoming, he had said dreadful things when under the influence of alcohol. My friends took me aside, lectured me and suggested that if I was placed in a little cottage somewhere out of sight, given a few pounds in addition to my pension, I would be much happier....
"I left them; the brave boy who had done his bit and who went through the thick of it vamoosed. I didn't even wait for the additional few pounds.... Then an uncle of mine died and left me six hundred pounds. I collared this, wrote to Fifi, whom I had not forgotten.... She remembered me.... Her father was killed at Verdun. What could I do but come over and see her? 'Twas an easy matter then. I had some money, I loved her; so we got married. She's a grand woman, Bowdy. I didn't understand her when we were billeted here; I don't even understand her yet.... Oh, how she misses her father, but she bears it as a Frenchwoman can. I tried to console her at first, but I say nothing about her loss now. First she used to say, when we spoke about her father's death: 'C'est la guerre,' but now it's different. It's now: 'He died for France and it's an honour to die for one's country.'"
Bubb filled his glass, Bowdy did the same. The two soldiers looked at one another, then at Fitzgerald. Fifi came up to the table.
Bowdy raised his glass in the air, Bubb followed suit.
"Here's to Fitzgerald," said Bowdy.
"And to Fifi," said Spudhole.
"Long life and happiness——"
"And no end of 'appy children——"
"Victory for the Allies!"
"And 'ell for the Boche!" said Spudhole, bringing the glass of wine to his lips.