"Oh, well," she said apologetically, "I'm sorry if I riled you, but it's a bit awkward to speak it out to a man. Only" (the unconscious cruelty of youth--or was it conscious?) "you're both old, so perhaps I can get through. It's about Tim Martlow." "Ah," said Sir William encouragingly, "our glorious hero." "Yes," said Dolly. "I'm the mother of his child." We are all balloons dancing our lives amongst pins. Therefore, be compassionate towards Sir William. He collapsed speechlessly on a hard chair. Fosdike reacted more alertly. "This is the first I've heard of Martlow's being married," he said aggressively. Dolly looked up at him indignantly. "You ain't heard it now, have you?" she protested. "I said it wasn't legitimate. I don't say we'd not have got married if there'd been time, but you can't do everything on short leave." There seemed an obvious retort. Rumbold and Fosdike looked at each other, and neither made the retort. Instead, Fosdike asked: "Are you employed in the works here?" "I was here, on munitions," she said, "and then on doles." "And now you're on the make," he sneered. "Oh, I dunno," she said. "All this fuss about Tim Martlow. I ought to have my bit out of it." "Deplorable," grieved Sir William. "The crass materialism of it all. This is so sad. How old are you?" "Twenty," said Dolly. "Twenty, with a child to keep, and his father's name up in gold lettering in that hall there. I say somebody ought to do something." "I suppose now, Miss----" Fosdike baulked. "Wainwright, Dolly Wainwright, though it ought to be Martlow." "I suppose you loved Tim very dearly?" "I liked him well enough. He was good-looking in his khaki." "Liked him? I'm sure it was more than that." "Oh, I dunno. Why?" asked the girl, who said she was the mother of Martlow's child. "I am sure," said Fosdike gravely, "you would never do anything to bring a stain upon his memory." Dolly proposed a bargain. "If I'm rightly done by," she said, "I'll do right by him." "Anything that marred the harmony of to-night's ceremony, Miss Wainwright, would be unthinkable," said Sir William, coming to his lieutenant's support. "Right," said Dolly cheerfully. "If you'll take steps according, I'm sure I've no desire to make a scene." "A scene," gasped Sir William. "Though," she pointed out, "it's a lot to ask of any one, you know. Giving up the certain chance of getting my photograph in the papers. I make a good picture, too. Some do and some don't, but I take well and when you know you've got the looks to carry off a scene, it's asking something of me to give up the idea." "But you said you'd no desire to make a scene."