"Wot about the girl at Gorre," said Bowdy Benners. "You forgot all about Walworth Road when you went to see her on a stretcher with a ground-sheet for a uniform." Bubb never wanted to be reminded of this incident, but at the present time he was too tired to pay any heed to Bowdy's remarks. At seven o'clock the platoon arrived at Y---- Farm and the men were conducted to the old barn in which a few of them had billeted before. Bowdy and Bubb sat down on the straw and took off their puttees, lit their cigarettes and fumbled in their pockets for money. Fifi, of course, would give them soup and coffee free; but they felt it becoming to them to offer money, even though it was not accepted. "Come along," said Bowdy, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Fifi will be waiting for us." They went down the crazy stairs and across the farmyard towards the house. Everything about the place was the same as of old, the midden, the sloughy pools, the up-ended waggons, the grunting of the pigs in the stye, the restless movement of cattle in the byre and the noisy growling of the dog. Bubb recalled the night of his return from the café of Jean Lacroix. "The same blurry dawg," he said to Bowdy. "The same." "Look!" whispered Bubb, as the two got near the door. "There's Fifi. Gawd! She 'asn't 'arf changed.... Stout.... She must be married." They entered. Fifi rushed forward to meet them, and clasping Bubb with both arms she kissed him on the lips. Then she kissed Bowdy, who blushed as red as a beetroot. "Well, I'm damned," said Bubb. "Ye're not 'arf a giddy one, Fifi." She must have been working hard during the day, for her hair was all untidy, her linen soiled and stained, her skirts in the same condition. "Back from the trenches?" she asked. "Back again," said Bubb who could follow the remark, though spoken in French. "Trenches no bong," he said. "Ploosier mon camerads mort, more blissée. Guerre never fini." "The sergen, is zee dead?" asked Fifi, speaking in English. "The bon sergen." "'E's dead," said Bubb. "Also Flanagan; also Captain Thorley...." "Mon père mort," said the girl, and her eyes filled with tears. "Mort à Verdun." There was a long silence. The two soldiers sat down near the stove. Fifi put a basin of soup over the fire. Madame Babette came in from the byre, her heavy shoes covered with cow-dung, and placed a pail of milk on the dresser. She shook hands with Bubb and Bowdy. "Back from the trenches?" she enquired. "Back for a month's rest," Bowdy replied. "I s'pose you're married now, Fifi?" Bubb remarked, fixing his eyes on the girl. She did indeed look like a married woman; the old sprightly manner was gone; her face was pale and quiet now, and a tinge of sadness had crept into her voice. The old Fifi, the full-throated coquette of eighteen months ago, had given place to a prudent housewife whose interests did not extend beyond the marches of the farm. "I am married," she replied. "A good husband?" asked Bubb.