On this Day of the Great Awakening, Woman stormed the departments. Kittums and Patrine plunged into the scrum, to emerge after having achieved a modified success. Lady Norwater’s explanation, that she required provisions in wholesale bulk because of a yachting-trip she meditated, had been hit upon by several thousands of other terminological inexactitudinarians. The mounds of bacon, the castled tins of tea and coffee, the sacks of sugar, rice, and cereals, the raisins, currants, and tinned comestibles—had been nearly all picked up by these knowing early risers. Still enough had been secured to relieve the mind of Mrs. Wallop, and scare the wolf from the threshold of 00, Cadogan Place. "Beg pardon, m’ lady." The sedate face of the respectable Williams looked over the last Brobdingnagian parcel transferred to his embrace. "I think if your ladyship ’as no objection it would be better to close the car." "If it will close," began Margot, looking with interested speculation at the mountainous accumulation of bulky, whitey-brown string-tied bags and packages upon the front seat. "FOOD ’OGS!" bellowed a man in a rusty bowler hat and soiled shirt sleeves, so suddenly and powerfully that Kittums jumped. "Garn ’ome!" vindictively shrieked a fiery-faced female. "Greedy-guts! Yah! Git along ’ome!" "FOOD ’OGS!" reiterated the Stentor in shirt sleeves, backed by an approving murmur from a crowd of dingily-clad men and women gathered upon the pavement right and left of the imposing entrance to the Stores. "Now then, move on ’ere!" came from a policeman, and the crowd began to dissolve, with lowering glances. Motorcars were moving away, carrying their owners embedded in groceries. Others were driving up to the door. "Move on, please!" repeated the Man in Blue. "Not till I’ve got rid of these things. Call the Commissionaire. Tell him my name and number!—say the orders were given by mistake! ..." Margot went on, when the Alpine range of parcels had melted away under the combined efforts of chauffeur and Commissionaire: "Poor old Wallop will wail, but I’ve purged myself of the contempt of being a Food Hog. Great Snipe! to think of deserving to be called such an awful name. It made me feel all of seventeen stone, with a row of chins like saddle-bags!" She pinched her own dainty chin between a tiny finger and thumb. "Still, I’ve enjoyed the scrum," she went on, as the car slid towards Piccadilly. "It’s bucked me splendidly! I shall know what to do now, when I want to lay my ghosts. You know one of them"—the little fingers twitched in Patrine’s—"what’s coming in November. The other started haunting me only a few days back." All the new-won colour had died out of the small oval face and the great dark eyes were tragic in their terror. "You’re too good a pal to laugh. Well, then—I’ll own up. Franky’s my latest ghost of all!" "But you have heard? You have had letters?" The answer was strangled between a laugh and a sob.