"Cattell--Cattell----" she whispered to herself very fast, riffling over the leaves desperately. Then she reverted to the symposium and the soldiers. "Oh, dear, everybody on that page was writing letters to know why they didn't get married," she said. "I wish somebody would write letters telling why they _did_, or explain to those poor girls that say nobody wants to marry a refined girl that they'd better leave it alone!" After that she hunted for the Cattell letter till she found it. Then she took it to her superior, in the next room. Then she returned to her work and rolled the paper up into a very small ball and dropped it into the big wastebasket, and pushed it down with a small, neat oxford-tied foot. Then she went to the window again restlessly, looked out with caution, as if there might be more soldiers crossing the street, and they might spring at her. But there were none; only a fat, elderly gentleman gesticulating for a taxi and looking so exactly like a _Saturday Evening Post_ cover that he almost cheered her. Marjorie had a habit of picking up very small, amusing things and being amused by them. And then into the office bounced the one girl she hadn't seen that day. "Oh, Mrs. Ellison, congratulations! I just got down, or I'd have been here before!" she gasped, kissing Marjorie hard three times. Then she stood back and surveyed Marjorie tenderly until she wanted to pick the wad of paper out of the basket and throw it at her. "Coming back to you!" she said softly. "Oh, you must be thrilled!" She put her head on one side--she wore her hair in a shock of bobbed curls which Marjorie loathed anyway, and they flopped when she wished to be emphatic--and surveyed Marjorie with prolonged, tender interest. "Any time now!" she breathed. "Yes," said Marjorie desperately. "The ship will be in some time next week. Yes, I'm thrilled. It's--it's wonderful. Thank you, Miss Kaplan, I knew you would be sympathetic." One hand was clenching and unclenching itself where Miss Kaplan, fortunately a young person whose own side of emotions occupied her exclusively, could not see it. Miss Kaplan kissed her, quite uninvited, again, said "_Dear_ little war-bride!" and--just in time, Marjorie always swore, to save herself from death, fled out. It is all very well to be a war-bride when there's a war, but the war was over. "And I'm married," Marjorie said when the door had swung to behind Miss Kaplan, "for life!"