“Quite,” said I.

“Especially when their eldest boy, the one, you know, who was so frightfully good at golf or something, has just got into a mess with—­”

“Quite,” said I, while she plunged into a flood of reminiscences.  She did not ask whether I could jazz, mainly, I think, because I had already danced with her.  I concentrated my thoughts on the best means of avoiding Mary when the music began again, and just threw in an occasional “Quite” to keep the lady in a good temper.

But there was no escaping Mary.

“You must go and dance with Miss Carter,” she told me, adducing incontrovertible arguments.  I am terrified of Miss Carter, who can only be described as “statuesque” and always does the right thing (which makes her crushing to the verge of discourtesy).  I am always being asked if I know whether she is “only twenty-two.”  It was not without satisfaction that I initiated her into my style of dancing.

To my horror, when we stopped she sat in silence, regarding me with an air of expectant boredom.  I racked my brains.

“Good floor, isn’t it?” said I.

“Quite,” said Miss Carter.

“Jolly good band too.”

“Quite,” said Miss Carter.

“And rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses, don’t you think?”

She said it again.  By this time I felt convinced that all the other couples within hearing were listening to us.  Miss Carter is that sort of person.

“Of course,” I said with a nervous laugh, “it’s rather absurd for me to say anything about it, because, you know, dancing isn’t much in my line.”

“Quite,” said Miss Carter.

That settled it; I felt I must stop her at all costs.  I cleared my throat and spoke as distinctly as I could.

“I’m always being asked a conundrum, Miss Carter, and you’re the one person who can tell me the true answer.  Am I permitted to ask it?”

“Quite,” said Miss Carter, for the first time almost smiling.  I plucked up courage.

“It’s this:  how old are you?”

She stopped herself just in time.  Her answer was given in a tone which expressed at the same time her contempt for my breach of the conventions and the fact that she was too indifferent to think me worth snubbing.

“Twenty-two,” said she.

“Quite,” said I.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?”

“WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”]

* * * * *

THE CAREER (POSTPONED).

MY DEAR JAMES,—­A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs—­myself.  I discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost decided on “filbert-grower.”  Had things gone well, by the beginning of June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts.