"Are you in love?" he asked. "No," said the girl. "Are you?" "No, certainly not," said Fitzgerald. "I never have been." "I don't believe you," said Fifi. "You English cannot be trusted. The English girls are so well dressed." "Why don't you believe me?" asked Fitzgerald, pressing her hand, and she made no effort to withdraw it. "I have never been in love; but now ... since I have met you ... I would do anything for you, Fifi. You are the nicest girl...." He paused, conscience stricken, for his words seemed so futile. For a moment he paused, and then a strange thing happened. In all his days afterwards he could not account for it. How it took place was beyond his understanding, but he had taken Fifi in his arms and kissed her. "Fifi, I love you," he said. "I'll do anything for you. After the war, I'll marry you, come here and live, or take you to England--whatever you desire.... Tell me that you care for me," he said, pressing her to his breast. Fifi started back like a frightened fawn and pulled the window to. Almost immediately she opened it again and looked out. "Go away, English soldier," she said, but there was no anger in her voice. "You're drunk and you should be in bed." Fitzgerald hung around the place for quite an hour afterwards, hut Fifi did not come to the window again. Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, he found himself in the house of Josef Babette. The man himself was away at the war, his wife and daughter were running the place during his absence. They had only one servant, a relative of Madame Babette, an oldish man, lean and twisted up, with his mouth almost hidden between nose and chin. But he was a good worker; few could surpass him at his labour on the wet level fields. Madame Babette was very industrious, she got out of bed every morning at five and nine at night saw her finishing up the day's labour. So from week to week, her toil went on all the year round. Only on Sunday did she seek a moment's relaxation, then she went to church, told her beads and prayed for her good man who was away in the trenches fighting the battles of France. Fitzgerald was sitting near the stove, writing up his diary, a habit he contracted at the beginning of the war and which he was still religiously pursuing. Mother Babette was washing her dishes. She was a thin, shrivelled woman of forty years of age, bent a little through hard work but still untiring as an ant. An adventurous hen was picking up the crumbs under the chairs. Two chickens, less daring than their older feathered friend, came in, stalked gingerly up to their mate, seized each a crumb in their beaks and ran off as fast as their red legs could carry them.