It was not. It was a soldier—or rather, an elderly civilian in uniform. He saluted, with all the elaboration of the newly initiated. Both girls surveyed him in perplexity. Then Liss screamed: "It’s Uncle Ga-Ga!" and embraced him forthwith. Uncle Ga-Ga it was. With his hair dyed a new and awe-inspiring colour, and an almost convincing set of false teeth, he did not look a day over forty-five. He held his old head proudly erect, and offered a hand to each of the girls, with a gallant gesture. "Yes, ladies," he said; "I have the great happiness to inform you that I have this day been accepted as a member of His Majesty’s Forces. I wear the uniform of King George the Fifth." His right hand went to the salute. "The King—God bless him! I have only just put it on, and I came round here at once to show myself to you—my two kind friends and unfailing supporters! There were some of my colleagues"—his mild eyes flashed—"men who should have known better—who derided my pretensions—who said that the King had no need of my services! But not you, ladies! You knew the King better than they did! Now, behold me! It is a common triumph for us all!" "And we are going to celebrate it!" announced Liss. "You are coming straight out to dinner with us—isn’t he, Marjorie?" "Most certainly he is!" said Marjorie. "We are going," proclaimed Liss, "to have _Potage à la reine; Sole meunière—_" Uncle Ga-Ga laid his hand upon his heart, and made a courtly bow. "Ladies," he announced, "you overwhelm me! But before I accede to your most hospitable invitation, pray read this: it may affect your immediate plans. I found it lying thrust under your outer door." He proffered an orange-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Marjorie. Telegrams in war-time take tense priority over everything else. Marjorie seized the envelope, ripped open the flap with one feverish movement, took out the message, and carried it to the window to read. Then, very deliberately, for the first and only time in her life, she slid down upon the floor, with her head on the window-seat, in a dead faint." "Oh, God!" cried Liss, running to her—"it must be something about Roy!" They carried her to the sofa, and laid her down. Her eyes were closed, but began to flutter again almost immediately. "The telegram—should we read it? Would it be right?" asked Uncle Ga-Ga. "Oh, yes!" said Liss: "I’d forgotten about it." She turned back Marjorie’s closed fingers, extracted the crumpled message, and smoothed it out. Then she gave a little sudden chuckling sob. "Listen!" she said; and read the message aloud.... "Sent off from Folkestone," she added breathlessly, "at four-forty. What time is it now?" "About half-past six, I think." "Then he will be here any minute!" cried Liss, in sudden panic. "We must get her to for him," she added, in the mysterious syntax of her kind. "Help me, Uncle!"