The "lady-chauffeur" was one of that eccentric, but interesting, band of mannish Englishwomen who invaded France in the early days of the war, and who have done wonders toward making Tommy’s life in a foreign land agreeable. Intelligent, highly educated, remarkably indifferent to the opinion of the outside world, Miss Granville was a character worth more than a passing glance. Her toque was always pulled well over her ears, her thick, short grey woollen skirt had two immense pockets in the front, into which her hands, when not otherwise engaged, were always deeply thrust. A long cigarette invariably drooped from the corner of her pretty, but determined mouth, and she walked with a swinging, athletic stride. Romance might have passed her by unnoticed; but the world could not ignore her—she was too much a part of it. Some innate chivalry impelled Tim to step across and offer his assistance to the fair one in distress. "Kin I be any help to ye, Miss?" he enquired, as he stooped down and peered underneath the car at the little lady who, stretched at full length upon, her back, was smoking a cigarette and at the same time screwing home an unruly nut. "Oh! Is that you, Tim?" she remarked without removing the cigarette or taking her eyes off her work. "No, thanks, I think not—this is a woman’s job." "Ladies does queer stunts in France," Tim commented meditatively; "we ain’t taken advantage uv dem in Canada de way we ought. See how de womens here, carries wood on dere backs, an’, look at dem fish-women ketchin’ skrimps in de sea. Gee, de gals to home ain’t never seed real work!" "You should train them, Tim. It’s all a matter of up-bringing. Won’t you have a cigarette?" she replied as she thrust a long open silver case out from under the car toward him. Tim extracted an Egyptian of a size such as he had never seen before. "T’ankee, Miss—dat’s a smoke fer a prince." "That was the intention, Timothy," she remarked casually; and then came an unexpected question: "Do ladies in Canada smoke, Tim?" Tim was visibly embarrassed. "Not sich as we _calls_ ladies, Miss," he stammered; and then realising that he had made a _faux pas_ he blundered on—"that is, Miss, I mean t’ say—" A rippling laugh from beneath the car cut short further explanation. "Tim, Tim," she cried mockingly, "what a sad courtier you would make—you’re too deliciously truthful." Poor Tim was red with chagrin. "I don’ know wot a kertyer is," he replied defensively; "I’m a hod-carrier meself." "Stick to it, lad," she laughed, "the hod lost one of its best exponents when you came to the war." But the colonel now appeared at the door, and Tim, with a hasty adieu to his fair tormentor, sprang across the road. When we were all snugly tucked in the car, he stood for a moment looking ruefully toward the cause of his recent embarrassment.