getting up, she pulled the man's sleeve.

"Sit dahn; don't 'ang out o' there."

The soldier flung himself back on the seat and looked at Pierson.

"The wife an' me's 'ad a bit of a row," he said companionably. "Gits on
me nerves; I'm not used to it. She was in a raid, and 'er nerves are
all gone funny; ain't they, old girl? Makes me feel me 'ead. I've been
wounded there, you know; can't stand much now. I might do somethin' if
she was to go on like this for long."

Pierson looked at the woman, but her eyes still met his resentfully. The
soldier held out a packet of cigarettes. "Take one," he said. Pierson
took one and, feeling that the soldier wanted him to speak, murmured:
"We all have these troubles with those we're fond of; the fonder we are
of people, the more we feel them, don't we? I had one with my daughter
last night."

"Ah!" said the soldier; "that's right. The wife and me'll make it up.
'Ere, come orf it, old girl."

From behind his paper he soon became conscious of the sounds of
reconciliation--reproaches because someone had been offered a drink,
kisses mixed with mild slappings, and abuse. When they got out at
Bristol the soldier shook his hand warmly, but the woman still gave him
her resentful stare, and he thought dreamily: 'The war! How it affects
everyone!' His carriage was invaded by a swarm of soldiers, and the
rest of the journey was passed in making himself small. When at last he
reached home, Gratian met him in the hall.