"The Vicar allows no animals inside the crypt. So hard on Mrs. Perry's
canary which has fits. I was here once when the Vicar's youngest son
brought in a rabbit under his coat. A dretful scene, my dear."

That district of London happened to be rather a courageous one. The
inhabitants felt that if the War had to be brought home to them, common
politeness dictated that it should find them at home. There were not
more than a dozen people in the crypt therefore. Most of them were old
ladies from the district's less respectable quarter, knitting. The Vicar
was trying to press comfort upon them, but without much success, for
they were all quite content, discussing the deaths in their families.

The noise of gunfire was coming nearer, shaking the ground like the
uneven tread of a drunken giant. Sarah Brown concentrated on an evening
newspaper, busily reading again and again one of those columns of
confidential man-to-man advertisement, which everybody reads with
avidity while determining the more never to buy the article advertised.
But presently the fidgeting hands of Richard caught her eye, and she
looked at him. He was sitting next to his mother on a stone step. He
seemed to be in a quieter mood and attempted no manifestation. Sarah
Brown thought he was suppressing excitement, however, and indeed he
presently said: "I say, won't it be fun lying about all this to
posterity and Americans, and other defenceless innocents."

Opposite to them, on two campstools, sat a young bridling mother of
fifty, with her old hard daughter of sixteen or so. Hard was that
daughter in every way; you would have counted her age in winters, not in
summers, so obviously untender were her years. An iron plait of hair lay
for about six inches down her spine; her feet and ankles made the