"Yes, quite true." "Not writing to a woman in England?" said Fifi. "There was a soldier here some time ago. He used to run after me. And I discovered that he had a wife in England." "I have neither wife nor sweetheart," said Fitzgerald. "But if you, Fifi.... I am serious, you know...." At that moment a French soldier came to the door, a man of about forty-two. Over his shoulder he carried a kit-bag. Fifi and her mother ran up to the man and embraced him. Josef Babette was back home on leave, after seven months of war. He was a strong-muscled, well-built man of medium size, a good soldier and diligent worker. He was a well-to-do farmer, a respectable man, who was trusted by his neighbours and bounden to none. He placed his kit away carefully in a corner, bade good morning to Fitzgerald, and sat down. Fifi brewed a fresh pot of coffee; Babette spoke about the war. He had just come from Souchez, and it was a bad locality. He had never known a spot as bad. No peace day or night. And as far as he could see the war would never come to an end. He drank his coffee, got to his feet, and went outside. Fifi, whose eyes were wet with tears of gladness, lifted the kitbag from the ground and took it into the bedroom. "Where has your father gone?" Fitzgerald asked her when she returned. "Oh, he has gone out to work," she replied. "Things are behindhand on the farm. We have so little help." Fitzgerald went out into the farmyard. Josef Babette was harnessing a cart-horse, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves thrust up over his elbows. Sergeant Snogger was washing at the pump. "Ow're yer feelin' after last night?" he asked. "Not so bad, sergeant," Fitzgerald replied. "Been in seein' Fifi?" asked the sergeant. "I have," said Fitzgerald. "She's a splendid girl. I love her, and if she'll have me after the war, I'll marry her. God! there's something grand in her; too good for me. But I don't know what to make of her. She won't trust me, thinks I'm married, or something like that. And I love her, but she refuses to understand me. We are so far apart, somehow." Snogger looked through his soapsuds at Fitzgerald, astonished at the Irishman's burst of confidence. "There is nothing artificial about the girl," Fitzgerald continued. "She is grand, so simple and original. She says what she thinks and is far too childish to hide her thoughts. And I don't think she has much of an opinion of us." "I don't think any of these 'ere French wenches care much for an English Tommy," said Snogger. "They'll go a little way wiv 'em and then they turn the deaf ear. I never was able to fool about wiv 'em. They're more freer than English birds at first, but it's ''ands off' if you want too much. They're all right if it's only cawfee and kisses, but ye'll never get any further." Snoggers winked knowingly and laughed. Fitzgerald made his way into the barn. CHAPTER IV TO THE TRENCHES