Mrs. Chadsey Smythe, clad in a suit of tight-fitting khaki, which accentuated her stoutness, was walking stiffly down the path from the cottage, followed by two welfare workers, discreetly keeping to the rear of their superior. The face of the meat-packer’s wife wore an expression of austerity which Grace told herself had been borrowed from some high army officer, an officer with a grouch of several years’ standing. Mrs. Smythe halted, eyeing first the car itself, then the two young women on the front seat, both of whom were gazing stolidly ahead. “Are you the chauffeur?” she demanded, addressing Grace. “I am Mrs. Grace Gray, Madame. I am driving this car through,” replied Grace courteously. “A car, did you say? No, this is not a car, it is a truck, and a very dirty truck. I venture to say that it has not been washed in some time,” observed the welfare supervisor sarcastically. “Quite probable, Mrs. Smythe. This is wartime, you know.” “That is not an excuse. The war is ended. Hereafter you will see that the car is clean when you start out in the morning.” “Yes, Madame.” “Another thing, driver, I do not brook impertinence from my subordinates. No matter how slack this department may have been carried on in the past, henceforth military form must be observed.” “Yes, Madame,” replied Grace meekly. “If proper for a superior to do so, I would ask if it is customary for a private to remain seated when such superior approaches to speak to the private?” “When driving, yes.” “It is not! Hereafter, driver, when a superior officer comes up to you, you will step down, hold the car door open and stand at salute, if you know how to salute, until the officer is seated. Am I clear?” “Perfectly so, Madame.” Grace repressed a hot retort, and Elfreda’s face burned with indignation. She found herself wondering how her companion could keep her self-control under the insulting tone of the welfare supervisor. “It is quite apparent, driver, that you are new to the army and its ways.” “Oh!” exclaimed J. Elfreda. “What is that?” demanded Mrs. Smythe. “I--I think I pinched my finger in the door,” stammered Elfreda. “Driver, step down. There is nothing like making a right start.” Without an instant’s hesitation, Grace sprang out, grasped the door of the car, and, standing very erect, held it until Mrs. Smythe and her two “aides” had entered and taken their seats. Grace Harlowe closed the door, clicked her heels together and gave her superior a snappy salute that even a freshly made second lieutenant could not have improved upon. “Oh, you can at least salute, I see,” observed the passenger. “I sincerely hope, however, that you are a better driver than you are a soldier. I wish a fast driver, but not a careless one. If you are afraid to drive fast I will request the colonel to give me a driver who is not.” “Yes, Madame.”