The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas afternoon. She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her overall, stained and creased after a long day’s work, then she went into the kitchen. Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the middle of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga’s, the most fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates. Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was trying to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot greeted him warmly. “Terrific night,” he said; “rain coming down in buckets. Water running round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you’ll have to get out another cup. The Major’s coming to tea.” “There isn’t a fourth cup,” said Miss Nelly. “You’ll have to drink out of a mug.” “Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway.” “All padres are greedy,” said Miss Nelly. “What’s bringing the Major here?” “I’ve arranged a practice of the Christmas carols,” said Digby. “Bother your old carols,” said Miss Nelly. “Must have a practice,” said Digby. “You and Miss Willmot are all right; but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won’t do to break down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there’s something I want to speak to you about before the Major comes. There’s----” “Before the Major comes, Nelly,” said Miss Willmot, “give me some tea. He always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through the first two before he arrives.” “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said Digby. “There’s a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on the back of the neck every time you lean forward.” Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to put it. The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places. “Look here, Miss Willmot,” said Digby. “I wonder if you could do anything about this. I’ve just been round to the guard-room. There’s a poor devil there----” “Language! language!” said Miss Nelly. She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby’s breeches every time he moved. “There is,” said Digby, speaking with great precision, “an unfortunate man at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under the stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant. I hope that way of saying it satisfies you, Miss Davis.” “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk Camp shop,” said Miss Davis. “Let’s have our tea in peace.”