Marjorie’s duties did not end at dinner-time; for war knows nothing of the eight-hour day, or early closing, or Sabbath observance. Lord Eskerley frequently went out about nine in the evening—sometimes to Downing Street, occasionally to Buckingham Palace, not infrequently to an unpretentious house in Dulwich, where he found it convenient to interview persons whom it would have been undesirable to receive officially at the Ministry or Curzon Street. The house stood in the same road as Uncle Fred’s. The fact gave Marjorie, gliding past in the wintry darkness, a pleasant sensation of escape from futility. One bleak and muddy day in February she drove Lord Eskerley down to Bramshott Camp, to assist at a review of two new divisions. Somewhere outside Godalming the gears began to burr and slip. Finally, Marjorie pulled in at the side of the road and descended. The window of the car was let down and Lord Eskerley’s head appeared. "How long will it take?" he inquired, avoiding superfluous questions, as usual. "About ten minutes. The lever has worked loose; I can’t get my gears in properly," replied Marjorie. "Do you want any help? I have with me"—his lordship leaned back and exhibited his fellow-passengers—"General Brough-Brough; his A.D.C., Captain Sparkes; and Mr. Meadows. The General and Captain Sparkes, as you will observe, are all dressed up in review order, and I cannot have them tarnished or made muddy, or I should be bringing contempt and ridicule on the King’s uniform; also rendering aid and comfort to the enemy, which is not allowed in war time. So that disposes of them. I shall not insult a lady of your capabilities by offering my assistance. That leaves Meadows. Do you want him?" "No, thank you," said Marjorie, swiftly removing the floor boards above the gear box. The window was drawn up again, and Mr. Meadows, Lord Eskerley’s private secretary, a young man debarred from warlike exercises by acute astigmatism and valvular murmurs, looked very much relieved. Ten minutes later, Marjorie, somewhat flushed and not a little oily, resumed her place at the wheel, and deposited her passengers at the stroke of the appointed hour at Divisional Headquarters at Bramshott. Her employer, stepping out of the car, surveyed her grimy features quizzically. "Habakkuk!" he chuckled. Six hours later, at the end of the return journey, he inquired: "Do you read your Voltaire at all? Probably not: I’ll send you his ’Life.’" The volume reached her next morning. Therein Marjorie discovered a marked passage, in which it was recorded that Voltaire found Habakkuk "_capable de tout_." Thereafter, Lord Eskerley habitually addressed her as Habakkuk. *III*