'Mrs. Dowey's very ill,
Nothing can improve her.'


'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse:

'But dressed up in a Paris gown
To waddle through the Louvre.'


They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She
says ecstatically:

'Hairy legs!'

A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what
she is.

'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I must be
stepping.'

Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit.

'Where are you living?'

He sighs.

'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, where some of
the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be