Mrs. Dobson, though short and portly, carries her fifty-five years with buoyancy. She is a good-natured woman, with purple cheeks, a wide mouth, and a small nose; one connects something indefinable in her appearance with church on Sundays, so that one learns without surprise that she is a strict Anglican. She lives in the neighbourhood of Cadogan Square, and has five daughters, of whom two are married, to a well-known surgeon and a minor canon respectively. The beauty of the family is Joan, who plays the piano and is considered intellectual and artistic. She spent a year at the Conservatoire in Brussels, and often uses French words in conversation. Effie, the youngest, is an adept at games, and rather alarms her mother by her habit of using slang expressions and the shortness of her skirts. Soon after the beginning of the War, Lady Whigham having discontinued her days at home, Mrs. Dobson gave up hers, and as the other ladies in her circle followed suit, her chief occupation was gone. Of course, like her friend Lady Whigham, she joined several committees, but she was rather disappointed to find the meetings less sociable than she expected. What Mrs. Dobson likes is a friendly, chat over a cup of tea; when you sit formally round a green table, you never seem to get to know any one properly. “It’s so much nicer,” she said to Maud, the eldest unmarried daughter, a bouncing young woman of generous proportions, “to have something at your own house. My idea is to make a pleasure of charity. The most disagreeable things can be got through pleasantly. Now, you’re such a sensible girl, can’t you think of something?” Mrs. Dobson always speaks of Maud as “such a sensible girl”; spiteful people suggest that this praise is a form of apology for the absence of physical charm. Maud meditated deeply. “Everybody seems to have thought of everything, mamma, that’s the worst of it. You see, Mrs. Newt has that drawing class for orphan boys; then there’s Mrs. Badger’s fund for giving musical instruction to the children of soldiers and sailors, and the Parrys have dancing classes for them.” “That’s just it. We ought to be doing something useful of that kind. It’s a public duty for people in our position.” “But I think we are doing our share, mamma. What with your committee and Effie teaching those Belgian refugee children to play hockey and me at the canteen for ineligible shop assistants.” “I know, my dear. Still, it would be so nice to have something here--just to bring people together, as it were, in a cosy way.” Before any conclusion was reached tea was brought, and just then Joan came in from a concert at the Mandolin Hall, bringing a startling piece of news. “Who do you think I met at the concert, mamma?” Joan was evidently excited. She spoke almost breathlessly, and went on without waiting for a reply. “Jack Leclerc is back from the Front on sick leave, and he’s been made a captain.”