As, however, War was raging and most people are, underneath, kinder than not, she escaped very severe criticism and amassed some good round sums.  And, since all her various Funds had committees and meetings and minutes, Mrs. Delta, although that may have been only the least among her motives, was the recipient of certain expressions of gratitude.  Organised charity cannot elude votes of thanks.

But that Mrs. Delta likes work for work’s sake, apart altogether from honeyed praises, is now beyond question, for the campaign she has just inaugurated is unlikely to yield them.

“You must,” she said to me yesterday, “give me something for my new scheme.”

“I hope I shall have enough strength of mind not to; but what is it?”

“You have noticed in what a dreadful state so many of the shop windows in London now are?” she asked.

“The iniquitous prices of the goods?”

“Oh, no; I didn’t mean that.  I mean the dropped letters.  Where they have glass letters stuck on, you know, and some have gone.  Surely you must have noticed?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied; “but I thought the shop-keepers were too lazy or careless to bother.  The War has increased carelessness, you know.”

“No, it isn’t that,” she said.  “The poor fellows are so understaffed and overworked that they can’t find time.  My idea is to raise a fund so that it can be done for them.  My heart aches.  Only this morning I saw a barber’s with ASH AND RUSH UP on it; and a confectioner’s”—­she referred to her notebook—­“with ICE REAMS, and an undertaker’s with PINKING ONE ERE.”

“What is pinking?” I asked.  “I always wanted to know.”

“And,” she continued, again consulting her book, “a tobacconist’s with BEST OLDEN VIRGIN , and a dentist’s with PA LESS EXTRACTION.  Something really must be done.  Don’t you agree?”

I murmured that there were other abuses that were possibly more in need of immediate redress, but Mrs. Delta again turned to her book.

“And a dairyman with FAMILIES UP LIE , and a stationer’s with LUE LACK INK.  Isn’t it distressing?—­and so bad for growing children to see so much slovenliness.  And what can foreigners think of us?  The Americans, for instance, who are always so spick and span, and—­”

The means of rescue came to me in the shape, of a vast monster on wheels, bright with yellow and scarlet, thundering over the road.  “That’s my bus,” I said, and ran.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Father (to troublesome small boy).  “NOW LOOK HERE, TONY.  I SHAN’T WARN YOU AGAIN.  THE VERY NEXT TIME YOU MISBEHAVE YOU GO STRAIGHT UPSTAIRS TO BED.”

Small Sister.  “AND THAT’S THAT.  ISN’T IT, DADDY?”]

* * * * *

THOSE DRESSES.

(Being a Midsummer Night’s Dream, or thereabouts.)