I gazed stonily from the fair young thing across the counter to a group of her sisters in the background, who had paused in their play to watch in silent reproach the rude disturber of their maiden peace. "Yes, Sir?" said the voice once more. There was a note of weariness in it now, a far-off hint of unshed tears. Suddenly my eye caught a label on a bale. I decided to plunge. "A yard of cream wincey," I said firmly. The ice was broken. She smiled; her sisters in the background smiled; and I sank relieved upon the nearest chair. Obviously I had picked a winner; it seemed that cream wincey was a thing no man need blush to buy. I watched her fold up the material and enclose it in brown paper, and resolved to send it to my married sister at Ealing. And then a terrible thing happened. As I rose to take my parcel I saw Jones standing just outside on the pavement, talking earnestly to the Vicar. I sat down again. "And the next thing?" murmured the voice seductively. I looked at her in despair. But even as I did so my second inspiration came. "A yard of cream wincey," I said. One fleeting, startled, curious glance she gave me; then without a word she proceeded to comply with my request. I waited, with one eye on her deftly-moving fingers, the other on Jones and the Vicar. And, as I waited, I resolved, come what might, to see the thing through. She finished all too soon, handed me my second parcel and repeated her question. I repeated my order. I have never spoken to anyone of what I went through during the next three-quarters of an hour. My own recollection of it is very vague. Through a sort of mist I see a figure in a chair facing a damsel who cuts off and packs up endless yards of cream wincey till there rises between them on the counter a stockade of brown-paper parcels. I see the other young female haberdashers, her companions, gathering timidly round, an awed joy upon their faces. Finally I see the figure rise and stumble blindly into the street beneath an immense burden of small packages all identical in size and shape. I can remember no more. On the following day I went down to Devonshire for a rest, and stayed there till my system was clear of cream wincey. The first man I met on my return was Peters. "Have you heard about Jones?" he asked. "No," I replied. "He's gone," said Peters solemnly. A thrill of hope shot through me. "To the Front?" I asked. "No, not exactly; to a convalescent home." "Dear, dear!" I exclaimed, "how very sudden! What was it?" "German measles," said Peters, "and a mistake in tactics. If he had only waited to let them come out into the open the beggars could have been cut off all right in detachments. But you remember Jones's theory; he never believed in _finesse_. So he went for them to suppress them _en masse_, and they retreated into the interior, concentrated their forces and compelled him to surrender on their own terms." "Poor old Jones!" I murmured sadly.