“And what about that business interview that you’ve just asked for on the ’phone?” G.J. acidly demanded.

“Oh, we’ll come to that later.  We wanted a man here—­not to save us, only to save us from ourselves—­and you were the best we could think of, wasn’t he, Con?  But you’ve not heard about my next bazaar, G.J., have you?”

“I thought it was a Pageant.”

“I mean after that.  A bazaar.  I don’t know yet what it will be for, but I’ve got lots of the most topping ideas for it.  For instance, I’m going to have a First-Aid Station.”

“What for?  Air-raid casualties?”

Queen scorned his obtuseness, pouring out a cataract of swift sentences.

“No.  First-Aid to lovely complexions.  Help for Distressed Beauties.  I shall get Roger Fry to design the Station and the costumes of my attendants.  It will be marvellous, and I tell you there’ll always be a queue waiting for admittance.  I shall have all the latest dodges in the sublime and fatal art of make-up, and if any of the Bond Street gang refuse to help me I’ll damn well ruin them.  But they won’t refuse because they know what I’ll do.  Gontran is coming in with his new steaming process for waving.  Con, you must try that.  It’s a miracle.  Waving’s no good for my style of coiffure, but it would suit you.  You always wouldn’t wave, but you’ve got to now, my seraph.  The electric heater works in sections.  No danger.  No inconvenience to the poor old scalp.  The waves will last for six months or more.  It has to be seen to be believed, and even then you can’t believe it.  Its only fault is that it’s too natural to be natural.  But who wants to be natural?  This modern craze for naturalness seems to me to be rather unwholesome, not to say perverted.  What?”

She seized G.J.’s arm convulsively.

Concepcion had said nothing.  G.J. sought her eyes in the darkness, but did not find them.

“So much for the bazaar!” he said.

Queen suddenly cried aloud: 

“What is it, Robin?  Has Captain Brickly telephoned?”

“Yes, my lady,” came a voice faintly across the gloom from the region of the ladder-shaft.

“They’re coming!  They’ll be here directly!” exclaimed Queen, loosing G.J. and clapping her hands.

G.J. thought of Robin affixed to the telephone, and some scarlet-shouldered officer at the War Office quitting duty for the telephone, in order to keep the capricious girl informed of military movements simply because she had taken the trouble to be her father’s daughter, and in so doing had acquired the right to treat the imperial machine as one of her nursery toys.  And he became unreasonably annoyed.

“I suppose you were cowering in your Club during the first Act?” she said, with vivacity.

“Yes,” G.J. briefly answered.  Once more he was aware of a strong instinctive disinclination to relate what had happened to him.  He was too proud to explain, and perhaps too tired.