Mr. B. was a stout youngish man who hadn't been able—worse luck—to chuck his job and join the Army; he'd tried for four years to get another chap to take his place but it was no go. He sat at the head of the table reading the Daily Mail. Mrs. B. was a youngish plump little body, rather like a pigeon. She sat opposite, preening herself behind the coffee set and keeping an eye of warning love on little B. who perched between them, swathed in a napkin and tapping the top of a soft-boiled egg.
I love the description of the two characters in this short story. A man stuck. His wife a youngish plump little body comparable to a pigeon. You can picture a little nest as they preen over little B. This bit of fantasy blended with reality is a perfect illustration of the division between the "adult world" and the "world of the child." It reminds me of a gathering of crows and the fact that I use to call these birds ca-ca birds, or short ca-ca. Dad mom look at the cacas. Its like an arma-dildo instead of armadillo.