“You’ve got queer notions of pretty. Why, only yesterday Mrs. Sinden wur saying to me as she can’t think wot Sam Honey ever saw in Thyrza Shearne. And you can’t git naun out of her, she’s slow as a cow, and she looks at you lik a cow chewing the cud....” Nell broke in— “You’re all taking it for granted that Mrs. Honey would have Tom if she was given the chance. Maybe he’d be quite safe even if he asked her.” “Nonsense, my girl,” cried Mus’ Beatup. “A woman ud taake any man as wur fool enough to ask her; if a woman’s unwed you may reckon she’s never been asked.” Ivy laughed loudly at this, and Nell turned crimson. “Women aren’t going quite so cheap as you think.” “Oh, aun’t they!—when it’s bin proved as there’s twice as many of ’em as there’s men. I tell you, when there’s a glut of turnips, the price goes down.” “There aren’t twice as many women as men. Miss Goldsack was saying only the other day that——” “And I tell you it’s bin proved as there are, and when the War’s over there’ll be more still, and they’ll be going about weeping and hollering and praying to the men to taake them.” “They won’t. They’ll have something better to do. This War’s teaching women to work, and——” “Work! I wudn’t give a mouldy onion fur women’s work....” And so on, and so on. 5 Thyrza herself was a little surprised to hear so often from Tom, and the brooch was a piece of daring she had never expected. It is true that from time to time she sent him presents of chocolate and cigarettes, but his letters were much more than an acknowledgment of these. They were not love-letters, but Thyrza knew that they contained more confidences than those he sent to Worge—she was familiar with all the common round of his day, from rêveille to lights-out. He told her about the men he liked and those he didn’t, about his drills and fatigues, about his food and Cookie’s queer notions of a stew—Thyrza knew what was an “army biscuit,” a “choky,” a “gor’ blimey,” and the number of stripes worn respectively by “God Almighty,” “swank” and “goat.” Scarcely a week passed without one of those thin yellowish envelopes, with the red triangle in the corner, slipping under the shop door—addressed in smeary, indelible pencil, and smelling of woodbines. She noticed a growing assurance in his style—partly due, perhaps, to the friendliness of her replies, partly, no doubt, to the growing manhood in him. She had always looked on Tom as a kind, slow chap, with very little to say for himself, and not too much thinking going on either, but with an unaccountable good heart. Now she realised that the Army was smartening him up, giving him confidence, enlarging his ideas. Thyrza was only a countrywoman herself, born within ten miles of where she lived now, but she did not fail to notice or to respect this growth in Tom. “He’s gitting new ideas in his head, and he’s waking up a bit. I shan’t lik him the less for being readier wud his tongue, surelye.”