Still, Marjorie’s hunt for happiness was not yet complete. There were two crumpled rose-leaves. Firstly, her implacable conscience continued to inform her that her war work was too easy. Secondly, her evenings were as lonely as ever. As soon as rehearsals finished, and "Too Many Girls" started upon its nightly and tumultuous presentation, Liss disappeared regularly every evening about half-past six; to return, sometimes exhilarated, sometimes gloomy, sometimes affectionate, sometimes quarrelsome, but invariably hungry and inexorably talkative, about midnight. Supper was then served. The two ladies rarely ate at a table: as already noted, the keynote of a feminine meal is its passionate avoidance of anything in the shape of ceremonial routine. As often as not Marjorie would take her supper to bed with her, while Liss, munching and babbling, plied back and forth between the sitting-room and bedroom, in progressive stages of disrobement, bearing fresh supplies and relating the experiences of the day—continuing long after she had shed her flimsy garments over two rooms and a vestibule, arrayed herself in night attire, and crawled into bed. "My dear, we had the most wonderful house to-night. Seven _legitimate_ calls after the first act! What an audience these boys on leave make! (Here are a couple of sardines: the bloater paste is nah-poo.) They gave Phyllis Lane such a reception! She had to do the dance after ’Pull Up your Socks!’ three times; (and if you want any more cocoa tell me, because I am going to turn out the gas-ring.) Her husband has been mentioned in dispatches. Leonard wasn’t in front to-night—selfish pig! I’ll tell him off for that, to-morrow. (Oh, you darling, did you put this hot-water-bottle in my bed? I must give you a kiss for that. There! No, it won’t hurt you, it’s only lip salve.) Mr. Lee came behind to-night, and spoke to us all. Said the show was a credit to everybody, and he was very pleased to hear how brave we all were during the raid the other night. Yes, he’s the managing director. (Have you finished? Very well, then! Give me the tray. Here’s a cigarette for you.) By the way, I was talking to Uncle Ga-Ga to-night. Oh, didn’t I tell you about him? He’s one of the chorus gentlemen—about a hundred years old, and simply mad to get into the war. But they won’t take him. He keeps changing his name, and dyeing his hair a fresh colour, and trying again; but they turn him down every time. Seems queer, doesn’t it, that when a man wants to go he can’t, while there are so many who should and won’t? (Can I use your cold cream, dear? I can’t find mine.) Lee said they would probably put on a second edition about August: we start rehearsing the new numbers next week. Why don’t you come and get a job in the chorus? It wouldn’t interfere with your other work. There’s two or three other girls doing the same as you, and Lee lets them off with one _matinée_ a week. He’s very patriotic. A-a-a-h!