what they were like. The rest of the party followed her in a common impulse. Joyce's attitude caused them to tiptoe across the room and peer covertly from behind the long curtains. Without a word of explanation all were aware of their odd feeling of spying on the enemy—an implacable enemy, yet one who is (how plainly we realize it when we see him off guard in the opposing trench, busy at his poor affairs, cooking or washing his socks) so kin to ourselves. With the apprehensive alertness of those whose lives may depend on their nimble observation, they watched the unconscious group at the tea table.
"Daddy's taking three lumps," said Bunny. She spoke louder than is prudent in an outpost, and was s-s-sh-ed.
"Your mother's got her elbow on the table," Ruth whispered.
"Daddy's smacking his lips and chomping," insisted Bunny.
"That's worse than talking with your mouth full."
"How queer they look when they laugh."
"Your mother lifts her head like a hen swallowing."
"Yours has her legs crossed."
"It's a form of nervousness."
