“Do they?”
“Yes, sir; it’s all fun to them still.”
“Is it?” The A.P.M. grimaced and began reading the signs over the little shops: “Charcuterie—what’s that?”
“Baked-meat shop. Pork-butcher’s we should call it, sir!”
“Quincaillerie.”
“Hardware!”
“Who’s this, coming across the square?”
“Belgian refugee, sir!”
Dormer had no doubt about it. The heavy round-shouldered figure, the mouth hanging loosely open, the bundle carried under the arm, the clumsy boots, the clothes apparently suspended round the waist by a string. Her story was written all over her: turned out of some Walloon or Flemish farm or town, at the approach of the Germans—tramping along a road with a retreating army all mixed up with a nation on the move, she had lost home, parents, occupation, all in a few hours, and was glad to get board and bed and any odd job that she could do.
“Is this the sort of person we have to interview?”