End.  Mid-June did its best to justify the name.  Here and there, in the tiny patches of front garden, a tenant tried to help mid-June by cultivating wall-flowers and geraniums and snapdragon and a rose or two; but the majority cared as much for the beauty of mid-June as for the cleanliness of their children,—­an unsightly brood, with any slovenly rags about their bodies, and the circular crust of last week’s treacle on their cheeks.  In his abominable speeches before the war Gedge used to point out these children to unsympathetic Wellingsfordians as the Infant Martyrs of an Accursed Capitalism.

Betty pulled up the car at Number Seven.  Marigold sprang out, helped her down, and would have walked up the narrow flagged path to knock at the door.  But she declined his aid, and he stood sentry by the gap where the wicket gate of the garden should have been.  I saw the door open on Betty’s summons, and a brawny, tousled, red-faced woman appear—­a most horrible and forbidding female, although bearing traces of a once blowsy beauty.  As in most cottages hereabouts, you entered straight from garden-plot into the principal livingroom.  On each side of the two figures I obtained a glimpse of stark emptiness.

Betty said:  “Are you Mrs. Tufton?  I’ve come to talk to you about your husband.  Let me come in.”

The attack was so debonair, so unquestioning, that the woman withdrew a pace or two and Betty, following up her advantage, entered and shut the door behind her.  I could not have done what Betty did if I had had as many legs as a centipede.  Marigold turned to me anxiously.

“You do think she’s safe, sir?”

I nodded.  “Anyway, stand by.”

The neighbours came out of adjoining houses; slatternly women with babies, more unwashed children, an elderly, vacant male or two—­ the young men and maidens had not yet been released from the mills.  As far as I could gather, there was amused discussion among the gossips concerning the salient features of Sergeant Marigold’s physical appearance.  I heard one lady bid another to look at his wicked old eye, and receive the humorous rejoinder:  “Which one?” I should have liked to burn them as witches; but Marigold stood his ground, imperturbable.

Presently the door opened, and Betty came sailing down the path with a red spot on each cheek, followed by Mrs. Tufton, vociferous.

“Sergeant Marigold,” cried Betty.  “Will you kindly go into that house and fetch out Corporal Tufton’s kit-bag?”

“Very good, madam,” said Marigold.

“Sergeant or no sergeant,” cried Mrs. Tufton, squaring her elbows and barring his way, “nobody’s coming into my house to touch any of my husband’s property....”  Really what she said I cannot record.  The British Tommy I know upside-down, inside-out.  I could talk to you about him for the week together.  The ordinary soldier’s wife, good, straight, heroic soul, I know as well and and profoundly admire as I do the ordinary wife of