The symposium resumed its session. Uncle Fred was so benumbed by his recent experience that when his late assailant deliberately renovated the scarlet of her lips in his presence he made no protest at all. How quickly a man can become a _roué_, even at fifty-nine! "You can tell father," announced Marjorie, "that you gave me his message, and that I know him well enough to understand his point of view. In a way, there’s something rather fine about it. I have seen enough of life in the last year or two to know that this world would be none the worse for a touch of good old-fashioned, Old Testament, discipline. Also, that many of my sex aren’t to be trusted with a latch-key. But you can remind him, from me, that I am his daughter—and quite capable of taking care of myself!" She sat down again. "Now, I will tell you exactly what I have been doing during the last two years. Like every decent, able-bodied person in this land, I have been doing what I could in the way of war work. I wasn’t able to do as much as I wanted, because my education had been completely neglected; also, as most war work is unpaid, I had to work for my living at the same time. That was why I went on the stage. By working at night I had my days free to serve in a canteen. I have been in the canteen for more than a year now. I am not working at present, because I had a slight accident to my arm. I have also driven a motor-car, for a cabinet minister, liberating a man for active service. That was why I bobbed my hair, so that I could put my service-cap on and off my head easily. Most of us have done it; no one has time to waste over doing hair these days. We girl chauffeurs and munition makers have set quite a fashion. But, of course, you aren’t interested in fashions. Besides, bobbed hair doesn’t really prove anything. What you want is some direct evidence of what I have been doing." She thought for a moment. "I’ll tell you what—I’ll show you my motor-driver’s licence. I know I put it away somewhere." She crossed to the bureau, and took the licence out of a drawer. "Here it is," she said, unfolding it. "You will notice it hasn’t been renewed. That was because—" Her voice died away. Liss glanced up, saw that her friend had turned white, and was swaying on her feet. She ran impulsively to her aid; but in a moment Marjorie had recovered herself, walked across to her flinching relative, and proffered the licence. "There—you see!" she said. "I drove a car during all that time. It was war work, all right." Uncle Fred examined the document mechanically, and handed it back. "That seems quite in order," he muttered.