Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris Page A

Rumbald stumped down the room in the manner of the stage colonel, twirling an imaginary moustache.
    Rawley thought them the most depressing and pitiable collection of women he had ever seen. There were six of them. None had any pretensions to good looks, and only two of them were at all young. Deep lines seamed their heavily painted and powdered faces, and their black-pencilled eyes glittered metallically through their thickened lashes like those of a starved cat. And their frocks were the cheapest of tawdry finery.
    Rumbald stamped down the line in his facetious mockery of a military inspection, here making a coarse joke about chest measurement, there lifting a skirt ostensibly to check the position of the feet; while the girls tittered and uttered coquettish squeals of dismay. But there was an anxious competitive look in their eyes, which showed that the mock inspection was more than mere foolery to them.
    Like a cattle market, thought Rawley in disgust.
    Rumbald reached the end of the line and bawled, “Stand at ease! Stand easy!” He turned to Rawley. “Come on, Pete, take your pick.”
    â€œBut—well,” demurred Rawley, to whom this development was a complete surprise.
    Rumbald misunderstood his diffidence. “Oh, that’s all right. You’re the guest. First pick,” he cried magnanimously.
    The ladies had exchanged their absurd military postures for attitudes of languorous ease. Their mask-like faces smiled beguilingly at him, and they signalled invitingly with their bold eyes.
    â€œIt’s not that,” he protested. “You see, I didn’t know these girls would be—”
    â€œI quite agree,” broke in Rumbald heartily; and he did not bother to lower his voice. “They’re a pretty moth-eaten crowd of hags. Where did you get this bunch of tarts from, Pen?”
    Penhurst said that they were the best he could get at short notice, and added something coarse to the effect that faces were not everything.
    â€œOh, well, if Pete can’t make up his mind I’ll start,” said Rumbald. He took a thin, fair-haired woman by the ear. “I’ll have you, skinny Lizzie.”
    Penhurst announced that he would have the fairy with the chippendale legs.
    â€œCome on, Pete,” urged Rumbald, “pick your stable companion and let’s get on with the grub.”
    Unless he played the part of a spoil-sport there was nothing for it but to do as they suggested; but it was a cad’s trick to force his hand like that. He chose one of the two younger women, a girl in a shoddy black frock with a wan, pinched face. She looked as though she needed a good meal, and he saw by the momentary flash of fierce joy in her hard eyes that he had guessed aright.
    The unchosen three immediately ceased their beguiling smiles and glances, and began putting on their hats in a business-like manner. The market was closed for that day. Penhurst moved among them, distributing a few consolatory notes, and shepherded them to the door.
    Rumbald called for drinks all round. They sat down at the table, and the girl in the black-and-white striped frock brought in soup. Rumbald was in excellent spirits, and although most of his remarks must have been unintelligible to the ladies whose knowledge of English was limited, they squealed appreciatively at each of his sallies, though without interrupting the important business of eating the meal.
    Rawley, who had recovered from his first feeling of nausea, felt only sorrow for his partner, and was anxious to amuse her, but he could think of nothing to say. As the champagne circulated, however, his awkwardness slipped from him, and presently he found himself talking and even making jokes in his indifferent French. Glasses were filled and refilled. The room grew hot and noisy. This sort of thing was really quite amusing when one was warmed up to it. The girl in the black-and-white striped frock was placing a dish on the table, and he