MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?'

MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She's
married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford--"Snubs," they called him at
Eton.'

THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very likely he'll be
sent to Salonaiky.'

MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same tremors as
the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the letters wrote with pencils
as you or me.'

MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!'

MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she may be going
too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters and then
stop getting them, the same as ourselves. Let's occasionally think of
that.'

She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back.

THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!'

MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.'

MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none of your
pacifists.'

MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.'