‘But dressed up in a Paris gown To waddle through the Louvre.’ They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She says ecstatically: ‘Hairy legs!’ A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what she is. ‘Mind your manners!’ Rising, ‘Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.’ Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit. ‘Where are you living?’ He sighs. ‘That’s the question. But there’s a place called The Hut, where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They’ll take me in. Beggars,’ bitterly, ‘can’t be choosers.’ ‘Beggars?’ ‘I’ve never been here before. If you knew’--a shadow coming over him--‘what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to be back in the trenches.’ ‘If you knew,’ he has said, but indeed the old lady knows. ‘That’s my quandorum too, Kenneth.’ He nods sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry for you, you poor old body,’ shouldering his kit. ‘But I see no way out for either of us.’ A cooing voice says, ‘Do you not?’ ‘Are you at it again!’ She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes. ‘Kenneth, I’ve heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.’ ‘You never heard anything truer.’ ‘Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the dresser-top, and tell me what you see.’ He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed. ‘It’s a kind of a bath!’ ‘You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.’ ‘Me?’ ‘There’s a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.’ He snorts. ‘Oh, is there!’ She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun. ‘Kenneth, look!’ With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills. ‘My word! That’s the dodge we need in the trenches.’ ‘That’s your bed, Kenneth.’ ‘Mine?’ He grins at her. ‘You queer old divert. What can make you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?’ ‘He! he! he! he!’ ‘I tell you, I’m the commonest kind of man.’ ‘I’m just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.’ ‘I’ve been a kick-about all my life, and I’m no great shakes at the war.’ ‘Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?’ ‘Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because they wanted my shirt.’ ‘Your shirt?’ ‘Well, they said it was their shirt.’ ‘Have you took prisoners?’