Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris

jovially as an old friend, and so did Rumbald, though he had never seen her before. The familiarity annoyed Rawley. How she must hate them all, he thought, though she betrayed no sign of it. She said, “ Bonjour, messieurs ” with disarming naturalness, and a smile that included him though he had not spoken; and he could have sworn that she had divined his annoyance and that her eyes, which for a moment met his, were the kinder on that account.
    â€œNice bit of goods that,” asserted Rumbald, gazing appreciatively at her retreating high heels. “Keep nice and warm at night with that wrapped round you.”
    Penhurst grunted agreement. “She doesn’t wrap too easily, though,” he grumbled.
    Rumbald guffawed. “So she has given you the frozen optic, Pen, has she?”
    â€œNot only me,” growled Penhurst hastily, in self-defence. “I declare I believe the damned woman is a virgin.”
    Rumbald laughed incredulously. “Particular, is she! That’s half the attraction. She’s got a head on her shoulders. All the same, if I was a betting man—” He finished by throwing out his chest and giving his tunic a little tug downwards, an affectation which in a man of Rumbald’s figure Rawley thought ridiculous.
    After tea Penhurst led the way to the Galleries to do some shopping. Rumbald insisted on doing all the talking, and boisterously fanned the amusement which his rusty fourth-form French created among the shop girls. When at a loss for a word in French his method was to say the English equivalent in a louder tone and with what he considered was a French accent. Thus a walking-stick was asked for as “ un steek promanader ,” accompanied by dumb show, purporting to mimic a man-about-town twirling his cane in the park. His expression and antics were so absurd that Penhurst and Rawley were reduced to speechless laughter, and assistants flocked from the other departments to watch the fun and join in the game of guessing what it was he was trying to say.
    Out again into the Rue des Trois Cailloux they came at last, and led by Rumbald turned automatically, it seemed, into a café. He settled down with a long complaining of springs on the red plush seat and called loudly in his execrable French, “ Garcong ! Garcong!” And there they stayed till Penhurst announced that it was time for dinner.
    He led them up a mean and narrow street branching from the Rue des Trois Cailloux and stopped before a small, white-painted shop-front where a few fly-blown pastries were displayed against a background of black-and-white check wall-paper.
    â€œBloody looking hole outside,” he explained; “but they give you a good meal, and it’s quiet.”
    They found dinner laid in a long, boarded room, painted white, with frosted-glass windows high up along one wall and palms and a piano in one corner. A tall, dark girl, dressed in a black-and-white striped frock, whose pallor was emphasized by heavy powdering, took their caps and sticks.
    Rumbald moved straight to the piano, called for a drink, and began to play a spirited syncopated tune; and Rawley found himself seized by Penhurst and fox-trotted down the narrow lane between the table and the wall. As he turned at the top by the piano he saw with surprise that there were now a number of women standing at the other end of the room watching him. One of them clapped her hands and cried, “Bravo! Vair-e good, M’sieu,” and Rumbald, hearing this exclamation of surprise, looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, the fairies have arrived.” He sang, to the piano accompaniment,the first few bars of “If you were the only girl in the world;” then took a long gulp from his glass, stood up, straightened his Sam Browne with a tug and shouted, “Party—’shun! The C.O. will now inspect the parade.”
    The girls giggled, and arranged themselves in exaggerated attitudes of attention, while