"Like a glass of beer?" asks the Belgian.
A spare woman of thirty serves two glasses of ale at a table outside a hotel. She seems to speak English for preference.
"You want someone to sleep with?" asks the man from Poperinghe.
"No, I sleep with no man."
"Not married?"
"No, and plenty time yet, and I shan't marry an English when I do. The English are all false."
The man from Poperinghe seems taken aback. At a further table a curious scene is being enacted. Here are sitting a pioneer corporal and a sergeant, both wearing the 1914 ribbon. They have their beer, and between them is an effervescent loose-mouthed Alsatian. The latter, like the man from Poperinghe, stands treat.
"I vill take you, one minit, I vill take you," says the Alsatian, kissing the tips of his fingers, "just vait, not ten minits from 'ere."
"Oh you go on, you bloomin' well shut up. I b'lieve you're agent for the girl or something," says the sergeant.
"No, listen, I'll tell you vot it is.... C'est de gateau, got that, gateau; naw need to drink any coffee, just ten minits, you see for yourself."