worker, and had not yet acquired a taste for making fools of the
undeserving. "So this is your name and address," she said.

"No," said the Stranger simply.

"This is your name and address," said Lady Arabel more loudly.

"No," said the Stranger. "I made it up. Don't you think 'The Bindles,
Pymley,' is too darling?"

"Quite drunk," repeated Miss Ford. She had attended eight committee
meetings that week.

"S--s--s--sh, Meta," hissed Lady Arabel. She leaned forward, not
smiling, but pleasantly showing her teeth. "You gave a false name and
address. My dear, I wonder if I can guess why."

"I dare say you can," admitted the Stranger. "It's such fun, don't you
think, to get no thanks? Don't you sometimes amuse yourself by sending
postal orders to people whose addresses look pathetic in the telephone
book, or by forgetting to take away the parcels you have bought in poor
little shops? Or by standing and looking with ostentatious respect at
boy scouts on the march, always bearing in mind that these, in their own
eyes, are not little boys trotting behind a disguised curate, but
British Troops on the Move? Just two pleased eyes in a crowd, just a
hundred pounds dropped from heaven into poor Mr. Bonar Law's wistful
hand...."

Miss Ford began to laugh, a ladylike yet nasty laugh. "You amuse me,"
she said, but not in the kind of way that would make anybody wish to