I agreed with her heartily, and then listened to the confidences of another caller, a near neighbour (this one was without children, brilliant or otherwise), who told me that she had felt it her patriotic duty in war time to do all she could with her own two hands in the house; she had therefore cut down her fourteen indoor servants to nine; and she assured me she found that they could really manage quite well with this small number. Of course I looked politely incredulous; who wouldn’t, knowing that there was her husband as well as herself to be waited upon?—and I raised my eyebrows interrogatively, as though to inquire how she ever succeeded in getting even the simplest war-meal served with so inadequate a staff! But before she had time to tell me how she managed, the door opened and Mrs. Griggles was announced. And as, whenever Mrs. Griggles is announced, it is the signal for everyone who can to fly, I was not surprised to see furs and handbags being collected, and in a few more minutes the newcomer and I had the drawing room to ourselves. Mrs. Griggles is a woman with, let us say, a dominant note; not that I object to that; every woman nowadays simply must have a dominant note if she is to keep her head above water (women’s war-work has proved a boon in that respect), and some of them are more trying than Mrs. Griggles’ pursuit of charity recipients. There is the moth-ball lady, for instance, who’s perennial boast is that the moth never come near _her_ furs; the nuisance is that no one else can come near them either. Then there is the educational lady, who runs a serial story on the iniquities of our educational methods. “The whole system is wrong, abso-_lute_-ly wrong, from beginning to end,” she declaims. My one consolation is, that she would be far less pleased if it were right, since she would then have nothing to rail about. But my greatest bugbear is the inquisitorial lady—generally eulogized by the Vicar, when he is stuck fast for an adjective, as “_very_ capable.” She starts right away, in the middle of a piece of best war-cake, with a clear cut inquiry such as: “Does your husband wear striped flannel shirts under his white ones?” Hurriedly you try to decide on the safest reply. But she has you either way! If you say Yes, she explains how injurious it is to wear coloured stripes; they may be a deadly skin irritant, for all you know. If you say No, she holds up hands of amazement that any woman can neglect the man of her heart in such a way, and instructs you in the necessity for his wearing flannel in addition to his vests. Mrs. Griggles is a mere picnic beside the inquisitorial lady, for at least you know what her theme will be; whereas with the other you never know where she will open an attack.