In the kitchen there was a tiny fire of twigs.
American boys stamped in and out of the house, laughing, begging the
daughter to sew on a button, sell them an egg, boys of nineteen and
twenty, fair, tall, and good-looking.
"We shall be glad when they are gone," said the old woman looking at
their gay faces. "They are children," she added, "with the faults of
children."
"They seem well-mannered."
"They are beautiful boys," said the peasant woman, "and good-mannered.
But I'm tired of them. Children are all very well, but to have your
house full of them, your village, your family-life! They play all day in
the street, chasing the dogs, throwing balls. When our children come out
of school there's no holding them, they must be off playing with the
Americans. The war is over. Why don't they take them home?"
"Good-day, ma'am," said a tall boy, coming up to Fanny. "You're sure
cold. We brought you this." And he offered her a cup of coffee he had
fetched from his canteen.
"Yes, they're good boys," said the old woman, "but one doesn't want
other people's children always in one's life."
"Is this a park?" Fanny asked a soldier in the next village, a village
whose four streets were filled with rows of lorries, touring cars and
ambulances. On every car the iron was frail with rust, the bonnets of
some were torn off, a wheel, two wheels, were missing, the side ripped
open disclosing the rusting bones.
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