“I’ve forgotten his name now,” confessed Tuppence.  “To resume, that was in a way the apex of my career.  I next entered a Government office.  We had several very enjoyable tea parties.  I had intended to become a land girl, a postwoman, and a bus conductress by way of rounding off my career—­but the Armistice intervened!  I clung to the office with the true limpet touch for many long months, but, alas, I was combed out at last.  Since then I’ve been looking for a job.  Now then—­your turn.”

“There’s not so much promotion in mine,” said Tommy regretfully, “and a great deal less variety.  I went out to France again, as you know.  Then they sent me to Mesopotamia, and I got wounded for the second time, and went into hospital out there.  Then I got stuck in Egypt till the Armistice happened, kicked my heels there some time longer, and, as I told you, finally got demobbed.  And, for ten long, weary months I’ve been job hunting!  There aren’t any jobs!  And, if there were, they wouldn’t give ’em to me.  What good am I?  What do I know about business?  Nothing.”

Tuppence nodded gloomily.

“What about the colonies?” she suggested.

Tommy shook his head.

“I shouldn’t like the colonies—­and I’m perfectly certain they wouldn’t like me!”

“Rich relations?”

Again Tommy shook his head.

“Oh, Tommy, not even a great-aunt?”

“I’ve got an old uncle who’s more or less rolling, but he’s no good.”

“Why not?”

“Wanted to adopt me once.  I refused.”

“I think I remember hearing about it,” said Tuppence slowly.  “You refused because of your mother——­”

Tommy flushed.

“Yes, it would have been a bit rough on the mater.  As you know, I was all she had.  Old boy hated her—­wanted to get me away from her.  Just a bit of spite.”

“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?” said Tuppence gently.

Tommy nodded.

Tuppence’s large grey eyes looked misty.

“You’re a good sort, Tommy.  I always knew it.”

“Rot!” said Tommy hastily.  “Well, that’s my position.  I’m just about desperate.”

“So am I!  I’ve hung out as long as I could.  I’ve touted round.  I’ve answered advertisements.  I’ve tried every mortal blessed thing.  I’ve screwed and saved and pinched!  But it’s no good.  I shall have to go home!”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I don’t want to!  What’s the good of being sentimental?  Father’s a dear—­I’m awfully fond of him—­but you’ve no idea how I worry him!  He has that delightful early Victorian view that short skirts and smoking are immoral.  You can imagine what a thorn in the flesh I am to him!  He just heaved a sigh of relief when the war took me off.  You see, there are seven of us at home.  It’s awful!  All housework and mothers’ meetings!  I have always been the changeling.  I don’t want to go back, but—­oh, Tommy, what else is there to do?”