I had just been reading and in his
eye was wrath.

"The 'ole geeser's fyce is in this 'ere thing again," he said
scornfully. "Blimy! it's like the bad weather, it's everywhere."

"Whose face do you refer to?" I asked my friend.

"This Jimace," was the answer and Bill pointed to the photo of a
well-known society lady who was shown in the act of escorting a
wounded soldier along a broad avenue of trees that tapered away to a
point where an English country mansion showed like a doll's house in
the distance. "Every pyper I open she's in it; if she's not makin'
socks for poor Tommies at the front, she's tyin' bandages on (p. 286)
wounded Tommies at 'ome."

"There's nothing wrong in that," I said, noting the sarcasm in Bill's
voice.

"S'pose its natural for 'er to let everybody know what she does, like
a 'en that lays a negg," my mate answered. "She's on this pyper or
that pyper every day. She's learnin' nursin' one day, learnin' to
drive an ambulance the next day, she doesn't carry a powder puff in
'er vanity bag at present----"

"Who said so?" I asked.

"It's 'ere in black and white," said Bill. "'Er vanity bag 'as given
place to a respirator, an' instead of a powder puff she now carries an
antiskeptic bandage. It makes me sick; it's all the same with women in
England. 'Ere's another picture called 'Bathin' as usual.' A dozen of
girls out in the sea (jolly good legs some of 'em 'as, too) 'avin' a
bit of a frisky. Listen what it says: 'Despite the trying times the
English girls are keepin' a brave 'eart----' Oh! 'ang it, Pat, they're
nothin' to the French girls, them birds at 'ome."

"What about that girl you knew at St. Albans?" I asked. "You remember
how she slid down the banisters and made toffee."

"She wasn't no class, you know," said Bill. (p. 287)

"She never answered the verse you sent from Givenchy, I suppose," I
remarked.

"It's not that----"

"Did she answer your letter saying she reciprocated your sentiments?"
I asked.

"Reshiperate your grandmother, Pat!" roared Bill. "Nark that language,
I say. Speak that I can understand you. Wait a minute till I
reshiperate that," he suddenly exclaimed pressing a charge into his
rifle magazine and curving over the parapet. He sent five shots in the
direction from which he supposed the sniper who had been potting at us
all day, was firing. Then he returned to his argument.

"You've seen that bird at the farm in Mazingarbe?" he as