“You have squandered all that money?” pursued Miss Ford.

“Yes.  In ten minutes.”

A thrill ran through all six members.  Several mouths watered.

“I am ashamed of you,” said Miss Ford.  “I hope the baker will catch you.  Don’t you know that your country is engaged in the greatest conflict in history?  A hundred pounds ... you might have put it in the War Loan.”

“Yes,” said the Stranger, “I did.  That’s how I squandered it.”

Miss Ford seemed to be partially drowned by this reply.  One could see her wits fighting for air.

But Lady Arabel had not committed herself, and therefore escaped this disaster.  “You behaved foolishly,” she said.  “We are all too dretfully anxious to subscribe what we can spare to the War Loan, of course.  But the State does not expect more than that of us.”

“God bless it,” said the Stranger loudly, so that everybody blushed.  “Of course it doesn’t.  But it is fun, don’t you think, when you are giving a present, to exceed expectations?”

“The State—­” began Lady Arabel, but was nudged into silence by Miss Ford.  “Of course it’s all untrue.  Don’t let her think we believe her.”

The Stranger heard her.  Such people do not only hear with their ears.  She laughed.

“You shall see the receipt,” she said.

Out of her large pocket she dragged several things before she found what she sought.  The sixth member noticed several packets labelled magic, which the Stranger handled very carefully.  “Frightfully explosive,” she said.

“I believe you’re drunk,” said Miss Ford, as she took the receipt.  It really was a War Loan receipt, and the name and address on it were:  “Miss Hazeline Snow, The Bindles, Pymley, Gloucestershire.”

Lady Arabel smiled in a relieved way.  She had not long been a social worker, and had not yet acquired a taste for making fools of the undeserving.  “So this is your name and address,” she said.

“No,” said the Stranger simply.

“This is your name and address,” said Lady Arabel more loudly.

“No,” said the Stranger.  “I made it up.  Don’t you think ’The Bindles, Pymley,’ is too darling?”

“Quite drunk,” repeated Miss Ford.  She had attended eight committee meetings that week.

“S—­s—­s—­sh, Meta,” hissed Lady Arabel.  She leaned forward, not smiling, but pleasantly showing her teeth.  “You gave a false name and address.  My dear, I wonder if I can guess why.”

“I dare say you can,” admitted the Stranger.  “It’s such fun, don’t you think, to get no thanks?  Don’t you sometimes amuse yourself by sending postal orders to people whose addresses look pathetic in the telephone book, or by forgetting to take away the parcels you have bought in poor little shops?  Or by standing and looking with ostentatious respect at boy scouts on the march, always bearing in mind that these, in their own eyes, are not little boys trotting behind a disguised curate, but British Troops on the Move?  Just two pleased eyes in a crowd, just a hundred pounds dropped from heaven into poor Mr. Bonar Law’s wistful hand....”