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

saw Rumbald’s great red hand creep out and tickle the back of her knee. She slapped it away with a whispered “ Méchant !”
    Penhurst’s companion was laughing heartily, and her chair was tilted back. Suddenly, assisted possibly by an unseen boot, it tilted too far, and she disappeared over backwards, and lay with kicking legs on the floor. Theother girls screamed with laughter. Rumbald rose to the rescue, with his face modestly hidden in a table napkin, though one large eye peered unblushingly from behind it; and after some horseplay the girl was re-seated right way up on her chair to Rumbald’s spirited chanting of the ribald verses, “She was poor but honest.”
    Glasses were refilled. Rawley had already, during the past few hours, drunk more alcohol than he had drunk before in any three days. It gave one a comfortable, contented feeling. Rumbald was right. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. If that were true of anywhere, it was certainly true of Amiens in war time. Though Rumbald, the old satyr, had not yet seen a round fired in anger. But he damn soon would. Wise fellow, then, to make the most of things.
    He glanced approvingly at Rumbald, who was doing some fooling on the floor with a wine-glass and his partner’s beaded hand-bag, and drained his glass. He refilled it, and refilled his partner’s glass, and he experienced an unfamiliar trembling when her hand, with its long, pointed nails, came out and rested upon his knee.
    Rumbald moved to the piano and they danced, stopping only to replenish glasses and when overcome by laughter. They all talked loudly and laughed uproariously at anything or nothing, but particularly at Rumbald’s absurd antics as he sat thumping out syncopated airs at the piano while his partner held a glass to his lips.
    Rawley found the lights and heat and noise bewildering; he was conscious only of circling round and round in abright, warm haze with the sickly scent of cosmetics in his nostrils; till suddenly he became aware of Rumbald with his cap on the back of his head counting out notes to the girl in the black-and-white striped frock. He stumbled across the room, dragging his note-case from his breast pocket with fumbling fingers. “Let me pay my whack,” he cried, pulling out a fifty-franc note.
    Rumbald waved it aside. “My show, Pete. Absolutely my show—mine and Pen’s. From now on we carry on independently. Meet in a couple of hours at the car—Hôtel de la Paix.”
    Rawley thrust the note into his breeches pocket, clapped Rumbald on the back, and went in search of his partner. He helped her into her cloak, and she held up her pitiably wan and painted little face for him to tuck the wisps of hair under her hat. Then they went out into the street.
    It was very dark, and he had no notion of his whereabouts, but she tucked her arm into his and led him along. He was annoyed with his legs; they seemed to have suddenly grown longer. His feet would keep hitting the ground when he thought they were still three or four inches from it, and it made him stumble as though he were drunk. The cool night breeze that was blowing cleared his head a little, and he recognized an open space they crossed as the Place Gambetta. She led him to a dark, narrow street and stopped suddenly before a door. She ran up the three steps and opened it with a key. “ Entrez, cheri? ” she said.
    He leaned against the wall without replying, and she repeated in English. “Cum-en, Darlin’.”
    He shook his head, and blurted half sullenly, “Not tonight, Josephine— Pas ce soir .”
    She came quickly down the steps and laid a hand on his sleeve; but he shook her off.
    â€œOh, you won’t lose by it,” he assured her, and thrust his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed over the note that Rumbald had refused, and he thrust it into her hand.
    She looked at it quickly and cried, “ Merci bien,