"Is that true?"
"Yes, quite true."
"Not writing to a woman in England?" said Fifi. "There was a soldier here some time ago. He used to run after me. And I discovered that he had a wife in England."
"I have neither wife nor sweetheart," said Fitzgerald. "But if you, Fifi.... I am serious, you know...."
At that moment a French soldier came to the door, a man of about forty-two. Over his shoulder he carried a kit-bag. Fifi and her mother ran up to the man and embraced him. Josef Babette was back home on leave, after seven months of war. He was a strong-muscled, well-built man of medium size, a good soldier and diligent worker. He was a well-to-do farmer, a respectable man, who was trusted by his neighbours and bounden to none. He placed his kit away carefully in a corner, bade good morning to Fitzgerald, and sat down. Fifi brewed a fresh pot of coffee; Babette spoke about the war. He had just come from Souchez, and it was a bad locality. He had never known a spot as bad. No peace day or night. And as far as he could see the war would never come to an end.
He drank his coffee, got to his feet, and went outside. Fifi, whose eyes were wet with tears of gladness, lifted the kitbag from the ground and took it into the bedroom.
"Where has your father gone?" Fitzgerald asked her when she returned.
"Oh, he has gone out to work," she replied.
"Things are behindhand on the farm. We have so little help."
Fitzgerald went out into the farmyard. Josef Babette was harnessing a cart-horse, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves thrust up over his elbows. Sergeant Snogger was washing at the pump.