"Quite," said I, while she plunged into a flood of reminiscences. She did not ask whether I could jazz, mainly, I think, because I had already danced with her. I concentrated my thoughts on the best means of avoiding Mary when the music began again, and just threw in an occasional "Quite" to keep the lady in a good temper. But there was no escaping Mary. "You _must_ go and dance with Miss Carter," she told me, adducing incontrovertible arguments. I am terrified of Miss Carter, who can only be described as "statuesque" and always does the right thing (which makes her crushing to the verge of discourtesy). I am always being asked if I know whether she is "only twenty-two." It was not without satisfaction that I initiated her into my style of dancing. To my horror, when we stopped she sat in silence, regarding me with an air of expectant boredom. I racked my brains. "Good floor, isn't it?" said I. "Quite," said Miss Carter. "Jolly good band too." "Quite," said Miss Carter. "And rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses, don't you think?" She said it again. By this time I felt convinced that all the other couples within hearing were listening to us. Miss Carter is that sort of person. "Of course," I said with a nervous laugh, "it's rather absurd for me to say anything about it, because, you know, dancing isn't much in my line." "Quite," said Miss Carter. That settled it; I felt I must stop her at all costs. I cleared my throat and spoke as distinctly as I could. "I'm always being asked a conundrum, Miss Carter, and you're the one person who can tell me the true answer. Am I permitted to ask it?" "Quite," said Miss Carter, for the first time almost smiling. I plucked up courage. "It's this: how old are you?" She stopped herself just in time. Her answer was given in a tone which expressed at the same time her contempt for my breach of the conventions and the fact that she was too indifferent to think me worth snubbing. "Twenty-two," said she. "Quite," said I. * * * * * [Illustration: "HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?" "WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."] * * * * * THE CAREER (POSTPONED). MY DEAR JAMES,--A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs--myself. I discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost decided on "filbert-grower." Had things gone well, by the beginning of June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts. Now this cannot be. The cog is shown to be indispensable. I must remain a soldier. Why do they want me, James? I am nothing like a soldier. I cannot click my heels as other men do. I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together. And my word of command! The critics say it is like a cry for help in a London fog.