Mother Babette finished her work, wiped the table, dusted the stove, put the plates on the dresser and sat down. Fitzgerald continued writing, but looked up now and again and took in with his eye the walls blackened with smoke, the rafters festooned with spider webs, the strings of onions hanging from the beams, the tall wooden clock beside the dresser and the dog which lay under the table, wagging its tail and shaking its ears as if trying to get rid of flies.... Then Fitzgerald's eyes were attracted by something else. Outside the door Fifi was standing, throwing crumbs to the hens which clustered round her feet. She was a well-built girl of eighteen with velvety black eyes and a fascinating face. She wore a grey blouse and a striped petticoat which reached a little lower than her knees, strong sabots and a kerchief which was tied carelessly around her head. A prudent and hard-working girl, she had already fed the pigs, foddered and milked the cows, in addition to the hundred and one little things which must be done every morning in a farmyard. She was in a good humour when she entered the house, her white teeth and bright eyes were made for laughter, and the girl's face generally wore a provokingly coquettish expression. But behind it all lay hidden a reserve of restraint and dignity which showed itself when the soldiers, speaking as soldiers often speak, went too far with an indelicate jest. Fifi would look steadily, with wide open eyes, at the speaker for a moment, then the eyelids would slowly descend and the girl would rise to her feet and proceed with her work. This morning, she went up to Fitzgerald where he sat beside the stove, writing. "To your sweetheart?" she asked. The Irishman flushed crimson and closed the diary. "No, I have no sweetheart." "You haven't slept; you look tired," said Fifi. "I couldn't sleep. How could I, after last night?" What a fool he had been, he thought. Raving of love and marriage at the café, then proposing marriage to Fifi. If Snogger and Bubb and Bowdy knew all that had happened last night, what would they say? They would never cease twitting him. And Fifi. What was she thinking of now? Of the affair at the window, probably. He looked up at her. Her eyelids dropped, but behind this shyness there was something impetuous and passionate in the whole of her personality. And he had kissed her last night. He had pressed those lips in one great kiss. But now she seemed very far removed from him. And the souvenirs. The request of the night before seemed so unworthy of the girl. "You couldn't sleep last night," said Fifi. "Why not?" "I was thinking of you, of all that took place." "But you were drunk?" "I was not. I remember all that happened. I have gathered up a lot of souvenirs for you." "I don't want any," said the girl. "I was only joking." "But you must." "No, no. Have some coffee. Who are you writing to?" she asked. "Nobody," said Fitzgerald. "It's part of a diary." "Is that true?"