Ten minutes later, utterly exhausted, Marjorie let herself into her tiny flat in a by-street off the Brompton Road. It was half-past nine. She set the alarm clock for half-past five, and went to bed with Roy’s letter under her pillow. She dreamed that Roy had been promoted—suddenly, but not unexpectedly—to the rank of Commander-in-Chief, and that it was her privilege to drive him to battle every morning at five-thirty, in a motor-car with the off-hind tyre punctured. *CHAPTER VII* *DUET* *I* In one respect her dream came true. Shortly after nine o’clock next morning, as the breakfast rush eased off, Marjorie was aware of the flushed features of the lady superintendent of the canteen, Miss Penny—"The Mouldy Old Copper," in the unregenerate language of the junior staff—angrily visible through a mephitic fog to which steaming tea, frying bacon, and moist humanity had all contributed. (Even in the crispest weather Tommy Atkins is a most hygroscopic individual.) "We are for it, my dear!" announced The Mouldy Old Copper. "What—Zeppelins?" inquired Marjorie, setting her tenth urn in position. "Worse! Inspection! They are coming at twelve. The Government have suddenly decided to inquire into the feasibility of making the Canteen Service an official affair—a branch of the A.S.C., or the R.A.M.C., or the Q.M.G., or some other futility. So they are coming to inspect us, as ’a typical example of a canteen maintained by voluntary effort and service.’ I got it over the telephone just now." "It was decent of them to warn you," said Marjorie. "That’s just what they haven’t done! I got the news by a side wind. It’s to be a surprise inspection. They want to see what a show run by women is like when it’s off its guard. I like their impudence! What do they expect to catch us doing, I wonder—arranging the tea-cups in the wrong formation; or not keeping accounts in triplicate; or flirting with the men; or what!" The Mouldy Old Copper turned a bright bronze colour. "I’ll jolly well talk to them, if they start any of their old—!" "Don’t you think," suggested Marjorie, "that it would be a good plan to telephone round at once to make sure that there are enough waitresses? You know what a bear-garden this place is when the men can’t get served." Miss Penny considered.