all house, in one of the old streets of
Westminster. 'No servants, I suppose,' he said to himself with
resignation. But it was bitterly cold, and he was relieved to hear
at last the sound of a voice and a girl's laugh inside. Pamela
opened the door to him, pulling down the sleeves of a thin black
dress over her shapely arms.

'Oh, come in. Margaret's cooking the dinner, and I've laid the
table. Bernard's just bringing up some coals, and then we're ready.'

Mr. Bernard Strang, a distinguished Home Office official, appeared
at that moment in his shirt-sleeves at the head of the kitchen
stairs, bearing a scuttle of coal in each hand.

'Gracious! Give me one of them!' said the Captain, hurrying to the
rescue.

But Mr. Strang, putting down the right-hand scuttle, to take breath,
warned him off.

'Thank you, Chicksands--but no brass hats need apply! Many
thanks--but you're too smart!' He pointed, panting, to the red tabs
and to the bit of variegated ribbon on Chicksands' broad chest. 'Go
and help Pamela bring in the dinner.'

The Captain obeyed with alacrity.

'All the servants left on Monday,' said Pamela. 'We had a charwoman
this morning, but she's gone to-night, because there's a new moon.'

'What--raids?'

Pamela nodded as she gave him the soup, with instructions to carry
it carefully and put it by the fire. She seemed to be in her gayest
mood, and Chicksands' eyes followed her perpetually as she went
backwards and forwards on her household tasks. Presently Mrs. Strang
appeared, crimson from the fire, bearing the fishpie and vegetables
that were to provide the rationed meal.

'To think,' said Mr. Strang, when they were at last at table, 'that
there was a time when we were proud of our "little dinners," and
that I never made myself unpleasant unless Margaret spent more than
five pounds on the food alone. Shall I ever eat a good dinner
again?'

He looked wistfully at the bare table.

'Will you ever want to?' said Arthur, quietly.

A momentary silence fell upon the little party. Bernard Strang had
lost two brothers in the war, and Chicksands had no sooner spoken
than he reproached himself for a tactless brute. But, suddenly, the
bells of the Abbey rang: out above their heads, playing with every
stroke on the nerves of the listeners. For the voice of England was
in them, speaking to that under-consciousness which the war has
developed in us all.

'Any news?' said Strang, looking at Arthur.

'No. The East