‘Too bloody true,’ Shem agreed. ‘Five bloody weeks on the Somme without a bath, and thirteen men to a loaf; and when they take you back for a rest you can’t wash your feet in a river, or go into a village to buy bread. They like rubbing it in all right.’

‘What are you chewing the fat about?’ asked Bourne. ‘You’ve had a bathe, and you’re not paying for it. Can’t you take an ordinary telling-off without starting to grouse about it? You don’t want to drink someone else’s bathwater in your morning-tea, do you? I’m going over to the house to inspect the inhabitants. There’s a mad’moiselle there, Martlow; just about your mark.’

‘You please yourself,’ said Martlow. ‘I’m not goin’; I don’t like the look of the fam’ly.’

Bourne found the womenfolk hospitable enough, and pleased himself enormously. He bought a couple of glasses of wine from Madame, who asked him not to tell the other men, as there were too many of them. Snatches of soldiers’ choruses came from the barn across the yard, and Madame was full of praise of the English, their courage, their contentment. She asked Bourne if he sang, and he laughed, lifting up his voice:

‘Dans le jardin de mon père, les lilas sont fleuris. …’

She seemed astonished by that, and beamed at him, her red face bright with sweat.

‘Auprès de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,

Auprès de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon dormir. …’

but he knew no more than a few lines of it. She knew it well enough, and told him it was not proper, at which he cocked his head aside and looked at her knowingly; and then, satisfied that he had turned that flank, gave his attention to the girl, who ignored it discreetly. She was not really pretty, but she had all the bloom and venusty of youth, with those hazel eyes which seem almost golden when they take the light under dark lashes. Two oldish men came in, and looked at Bourne with grave suspicion, while Madame and the girl bustled to get their evening meal. Every time either of those ladies approached him, Bourne, with an excessive politeness, rose from his chair, and this seemed to increase the suspicion of the younger man.

‘Asseyez-vous, monsieur,’ he said with a tranquil sarcasm. ‘Elles ne sont pas immortelles.’

‘C’est dommage, monsieur,’ Bourne replied, apt enough for all his clumsy French, and Madame beamed at him again; but the discouragement the men offered to his presence there was too strong for him, and he took up his cap, thanking her for her kindness, bowing respectfully to Mademoiselle, and finally saluting the two hobereaux so punctiliously that they were constrained to rise and acknowledge his elaborate courtesy. As he crossed the courtyard in the half-dark he laughed softly to himself, and then whistled the air of Auprès de ma blonde loudly enough for them to hear in the lighted room. No one could tell what luck tomorrow might bring.