“Kit” was a word in high favour among the Wickenham ladies. It was left over from the war, of course, with “cheery,” “wash-out,” “Hun,” “Boche,” and “Bolshy.” As a matter of fact, Bolshy was post-war. But it belonged to the same mood. (“My dear, my housemaid is an absolute little Hun, and I’m afraid the cook is turning Bolshy....”) There was a fascination in those words. To use them was like opening one’s Red Cross cupboard again, and gazing at the remains of the bandages, body-belts, tins of anti-insectide and so on. One was stirred, one got a far-away thrill, like the thrill of hearing a distant band. It reminded you of those exciting, busy, of course anxious, but tremendous days when the whole of Wickenham was one united family. And, although one’s husband was away, one had for a substitute three large photographs of him in uniform. One in a silver frame on the table by the bed, one in the regimental colours on the piano, and one in leather to match the dining-room chairs. “Cook strongly advised us to buy nothing here,” went on Mrs. Williams. “_Cook!_” cried Mrs. Prean, greatly astounded. “What can——” “Oh—_Thomas_ Cook, of course I mean,” said Mrs. Williams, smiling brightly. Mrs. Prean subsided. “But you will surely not depend upon the resources of a little Swiss village for clothes?” she persisted, deeply interested, as usual, in other people’s affairs. “Oh, no, certainly not.” Mrs. Williams was quite shocked. “We shall get all we need in the way of clothes from Harrods’.” That was what Mrs. Prean had wished to hear. That was as it should be. “The great secret my dear” (she always knew the great secret), “the great secret,”—and she put her hand on Mrs. Williams’ arm and spoke very distinctly—“is plenty of long-sleeved woven combies!” “Thank you, m’m.” Both ladies started. There at their side was Mr. Wick, the nice grocer, holding Mrs. Prean’s parcel by a loop of pink string. Dear me—how very awkward! He must have ... he couldn’t possibly not have.... In the emotion of the moment Mrs. Prean, thinking to gloss it over tactfully, nodded significantly at Mrs. Williams and said, accepting the parcel, “And that is what I always tell my dear son!” But this was too swift for Mrs. Williams to follow. Her embarrassment continued, and ordering the sardines, she just stopped herself from saying “Three large pairs, Mr. Wick, please,” instead of “Three large tins.” 2 As a matter of fact it was Mrs. Williams’ Aunt Aggie’s happy release which had made their scheme possible. Happy release it was! After fifteen years in a wheel-chair passing in and out of the little house at Ealing she had, to use the nurse’s expression, “just glided away at the last.” Glided away ... it sounded as though Aunt Aggie had taken the wheel-chair with her. One saw her, in her absurd purple velvet, steering carefully among the stars and whimpering faintly, as was her terrestrial wont, when the wheel jolted over a particularly large one.