They were interrupted, not by the expected Mayor, but by a young woman,
who came violently in by the street door, rushed into the middle of the
room, and got under the table. The members, in surprise, pushed back
their chairs and made ladylike noises of protest and inquiry.

"They're after me," panted the person under the table.

All seven listened to thumping silence for several seconds, and then, as
no pursuing outcry declared itself, the Stranger arose, without grace,
from her hiding-place.

To anybody except a member of a committee it would have been obvious
that the Stranger was of the Cinderella type, and bound to turn out a
heroine sooner or later. But perception goes out of committees. The more
committees you belong to, the less of ordinary life you will understand.
When your daily round becomes nothing more than a daily round of
committees you might as well be dead.

The Stranger was not pretty; she had a broad, curious face. Her clothes
were much too good to throw away. You would have enjoyed giving them to
a decayed gentlewoman.

"I stole this bun," she explained frankly. "There is an uninterned
German baker after me."

"And why did you steal it?" asked Miss Ford, pronouncing the H in "why"
with a haughty and terrifying sound of suction.

The Stranger sighed. "Because I couldn't afford to buy it."