Mrs. Farrell, a lean, highly respectable Irish Charwoman
of about 50 comes in.

MITCHENER. Mrs. Farrell: Ive a very important visit to pay: I
shall want my full dress uniform and all my medals and orders and
my presentation sword. There was a time when the British Army
contained men capable of discharging these duties for their
commanding officer. Those days are over. The compulsorily
enlisted soldier runs to a woman for everything. Im therefore
reluctantly obliged to trouble you.

MRS FARRELL. Your meddles n ordhers n the crooked sword with the
ivory handle n your full dress uniform is in the waxworks in the
Chamber o Military Glory over in the place they used to call the
Banquetin Hall. I told you youd be sorry for sendin them away; n
you told me to mind me own business. Youre wiser now.

MITCHENER. I am. I had not at that time discovered that you were
the only person in the whole military establishment of this
capital who could be trusted to remember where anything was, or
to understand an order and obey it.

MRS. FARRELL. Its no good flattherin me. Im too old.

MITCHENER. Not at all, Mrs. Farrell. How is your daughter?

MRS. FARRELL. Which daughther.

MITCHENER. The one who has made such a gratifying success in the