man and as such likely to be called into the reserves. The two
exchanged glances.

"When?" asked Madame Maubert, resuming her clicking.

"At once, imbecile," replied her husband stolidly. "Naturally," he
continued, "when one is at last sent for, there can be no delay. I
must report at once."

"Oh, la la," said Madame Maubert, noncommittally.

Maubert glanced round his shop, his little wine-shop, his lucrative
little business that he had made successful. Very well. His wife must
run it alone now, as best she could. As best she could, that was
evident. She could do many things well. She must do it now while he
went forth into service of some kind--into a munition factory
probably, or perhaps near the front, as orderly to an officer, or as
sentinel, perhaps, along some road in the First Zone of the Armies. He
would not be placed on active service--he was too old for that.
Nevertheless it meant a horrid jarring out of his usual routine of
life, consequently he was angry and resentful, and there was no fine
glow of pride or patriotism or such-like feeling in his breast. Bah!
All that sort of thing had vanished from men long and long ago, after
the first few bitter weeks of war and of realisation of the meaning of
war. War was now an affair--a sordid, ugly affair, and Maubert knew it
as well as any man. Living in his backwater of a village, keeper of
the principal wine-shop of the village, his zinc counter rang every
night under emphatic fists, emphasising emphatic remarks about the
war, and the remarks were true but devoid of romance. They differed
considerably from the tone of the daily press.

From the kitchen beyond came the clattering of dishes, and some
talking in immature, childish voices, and the insistent, piping tones
of a quite young child. They were all in there, all four of them, the
eldest twelve, the youngest four, and Maubert and his wife leaned
across the zinc counter and looked at each other.

"It is your fault," he said slowly, with conviction. His eyes, deep
set, ugly, sunken, glared angrily into hers. "It is your fault that I
am mobilised."

She sat still, rather bewildered, gazing at him steadily. "You wished
it!" he began again, "You coward! You trembling coward!"

Still Madame Maubert made no sign, waiting further explanations. She
laid down her knitting and took her elbows in her hands, and by
gripping her elbows firmly, stopped the trembling he spoke of.

"You don't understand, eh?" he we