irst-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.

"You ought to have been up here. They dropped two bombs close to the
National Gallery; pity they couldn't have destroyed a Landseer or