MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I must say I was always partial to the straight line’--thoughtfully regarding the want of line in Mrs. Twymley’s person--‘though trying to them as is of too friendly a figure.’ It is here that the Haggerty Woman’s fingers close unostentatiously upon a piece of sugar. MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, ‘Lady Dolly Kanister was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty _de jou_.’ MRS. DOWEY. ‘Fine would I have liked to see her.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘She is equally popular as maid, wife, and munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops Babington was married in a tight tulle.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘What was her going-away dress?’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She’s married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford--“Snubs,” they called him at Eton.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, ‘Very likely he’ll be sent to Salonaiky.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Wherever he is sent, she’ll have the same tremors as the rest of us. She’ll be as keen to get the letters wrote with pencils as you or me.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Them pencil letters!’ MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she may be going too far, ‘And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters and then stop getting them, the same as ourselves. Let’s occasionally think of that.’ She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back. THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘I ask you!’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘That’s hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.’ MRS. DOWEY, scared, ‘Kindly excuse. I swear to death I’m none of your pacifists.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Freely granted.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I’ve heard of females that have no male relations, and so they have no man-party at the wars. I’ve heard of them, but I don’t mix with them.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘What can the likes of us have to say to them? It’s not their war.’ MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, ‘They are to be pitied.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is within doors with the blinds down.’ MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, ‘That’s the place for them.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I thought it was very impudent of her.’ MRS. DOWEY, meekly, ‘So it was.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent success, ‘I had a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Alfred sent me his photo.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Letters from Salonaiky is less common.’ Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey’s. Nevertheless she doggedly knits her lips. MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, ‘Kenneth writes to me every week.’ There are exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a packet of letters. ‘Look at this. All his.’ The Haggerty Woman whimpers. MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.’ MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, ‘Do your letters begin “Dear mother”?’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Generally.’ MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Invariable.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Every time.’ MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow. ‘Kenneth’s begin “Dearest mother.”’