III

Ten o'clock in the morning, and little Miss Anthony flew up Questerham

High Street on her bicycle, conscious that her hurried choice of a

winter hat had not only been highly unsatisfactory, owing to the extreme

haste with which she had conducted it, but was also about to make her

late in arriving at the office. She threw an anxious glance at the

Post-Office clock, and redoubled her speed at the sight of it, though no

amount of haste would get her to the Midland Supply Depôt Headquarters

under another seven minutes.

But she sped gallantly across the tram-lines and in and out of the

slow-moving stream of market-carts, and arrived breathless at the

offices in Pollard Street just as Miss Vivian's small open car drew up

at the door.

"Damn!" automatically muttered Tony under her breath, and seeing nothing

for it but to put her bicycle into a corner and efface herself

respectfully to let Miss Vivian pass.

But Miss Vivian, generally so unaware of any member of her staff as not

even to exchange a "Good-morning," elected suddenly to reverse this

policy.

"Good-morning," she said graciously. "We're both late today, I'm

afraid."

The clerk in the hall, who drew an ominous line in her book under the

last signature as the clock struck ten, laughed in a rather awestruck

way and said, "Oh, Miss Vivian!"

"I think you must let Miss Anthony off today," said Char Vivian,

smiling. "As I am late myself, you know."

She went slowly upstairs, just hearing an ecstatic gasp from the two

girls in the hall.

She was vaguely aware that those few gracious words and tone of easy

kindness had secured for her little Miss Anthony's unswerving loyalty

and admiration.

Girls of that age and class _were_ like that, she told herself with a

slight smile.

The smile died away into an expression of weary concentration as she

entered her private office.

"Good-morning, Miss Delmege. Is there much in today?"

"Good-morning, Miss Vivian," said Miss Delmege, elegantly rising from

her knees, in which lowly position she had been trying to coax the

small, indifferent fire to burn. "I am afraid there are a lot of

letters."

Miss Vivian sighed and moved to the looking-glass to take off her hat.

She also was in uniform, and wore several curly stripes of gold braid on

her coat collar and cuffs to denote her exalted position.

Even when she had taken off her ugly and unbecoming felt hat and run her

fingers through the thick, straight masses of reddish hair that hung

over her forehead, Char Vivian contrived to look at least ten years

older than her actual twenty-nine years.

She was very good-looking, with delicate aquiline features, a pale, fair

skin powdered all over with tiny freckles, and beautiful deep-set brown

eyes surrounded by unexpectedly dark lashes.

It was something quite indefinable in the lines round her pretty,

decided mouth, and under her eyes that gave the odd impression of

maturity. Her manner had always, from the age of five, been one of

extreme self-security.

"Now, then, for the letters," she said, as she sat down before the great

roll-top desk. Char Vivian's voice was deep and rather drawling in

character, and she used it with great effect.

"Miss Delmege, did you put these heavenly lilies-of-the-valley here? You

really mustn't--but they're too lovely. Thank you so much. They _do_

make such a difference!"

She sniffed delicately, and Miss Delmege smiled with gratification. The

lilies-of-the-valley had really cost more than she could afford, but

those few words of appreciation sent her to her small table in the

corner with a sense of great satisfaction.

Char tore open one envelope after another with murmured comments. She

frequently affected an absence of mind denoted by fragmentary monologue.

"Transport wanted for fifty men going from the King Street Hospital

today--and they want more sphagnum moss. There ought to be five hundred

bags ready to go out this morning.... I wonder if they've seen to it.

Inquiries--inquiries--inquiries! When are people ever going to stop

asking me questions? Hospital accounts--that can go to the Finance

Department.... The Stores bill--to the Commissariat. What's all

this--transport for that man in Hospital? I shall have to see to that

myself. Look me up the War Office letters as to Petrol regulations, Miss

Delmege, will you? Belgians again; they're very difficult to satisfy,

poor people. Madame Van Damm--I don't remember them--I must send for the

files. Here are some more of those tiresome muddles of Mrs. Potter's. I

told her all about those people on Monday. Why on earth hasn't it been

arranged? Nothing is _ever_ done unless one sees to it oneself. The

Medical Officer of Health wants to see me. What are my appointments for

today, Miss Delmege?"

"The man from the building contractors is coming at twelve, and the

Matron from the Overseas Hospital at three, and then there's that Miss

Jones who's coming to work here. And it's the day you generally go to

the Convalescent Homes."

"I see. Ring up the Medical Officer and say I can give him a quarter of

an hour at two o'clock. I can't really spare that," sighed Miss Vivian,

"but I suppose I shall have to see him."

Miss Delmege knew that, whatever else her chief might depute to her, she

never relinquished to any one a business interview, so she merely looked

concerned and said: "I'm afraid it will be a great rush for you."

Miss Vivian gave her subtle, infrequent smile, and began the customary

series of morning interviews which were supposed to settle the

perplexities of each department for the day. That this supposition was

not invariably correct was made manifest on this occasion by the

demeanour of the unhappy Miss Plumtree, when her chief had made short

work of a series of difficulties haltingly and stammeringly put before

her in sentences made involved and awkward through sheer nervousness.

"Let me have those Requisition Averages by twelve o'clock, please--and I

think that completes you, Miss Plumtree?" concluded Miss Vivian rapidly.

"Thank you, Miss Vivian. Is--are--do these averages include the first

day of the month as well as the last?"

"Yes, of course. And remember to give the gross weight of the supplies

as well as the net weight."

"And I--I divide by the number of days in each month. Yes, I see,"

faltered Miss Plumtree, seeing nothing at all except the brisk tapping

of Miss Vivian's long, slight fingers on the blotting-paper in front of

her, denoting with sufficient clearness that in her opinion the

interview had reached its conclusion some moments since.

"It's for August, September, and October, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Miss Vivian's tone implied that the question was unnecessary in the

extreme, as indeed it was, since Miss Plumtree had been engaged in

conducting the quarterly Requisition Averages to an unsuccessful issue

for the past eighteen months.

"Thank you."

Miss Plumtree faltered from the room, with the consciousness of past

failures heavy upon her.

Char did not like an attitude of sycophantic dejection, and Miss

Plumtree may therefore have been responsible for the very modified

enthusiasm with which the next applicant's request for an afternoon off

duty was received.

"It rather depends, Miss Cox," said Char, her drawl slightly emphasized.

"I thought the work in that department was behindhand?"

"Not now, Miss Vivian," said the grey-haired spinster anxiously. "Mrs.

Tweedale and I cleared it all up last night; I'm quite up to date."

"Well, I'm afraid there's a good deal for you here," said Char rather

cruelly, handing her a bundle of papers. "However, please take your

afternoon off if you want to, and if you feel that the work can be

left."

"Thank you, Miss Vivian."

Miss Cox, who was meek and deferential, left the room, the pleasurable

anticipation of a holiday quite gone from her tired face.

Char looked at the neatly coiled twist of Miss Delmege's sand-coloured

hair.

"Was I a wet-blanket?" she inquired whimsically. "Really, the way these

people are always asking for leave! I wonder what would happen if _I_

took an afternoon off. How long is it since I had a holiday, Miss

Delmege?"

"You've not had one since I've been here," declared her secretary, "and

that's nearly a year."

"Exactly. But then I can't understand putting anything before the work,

personally."

Char returned to her pile of letters and Miss Delmege went on with her

writing in a glow of admiration, and resolved that, after all, she would

come and work on Sunday morning, although nominally no one came to the

office on Sundays except the clerks who took turns for telephone duty,

and Miss Vivian herself in the afternoon.

The morning was a busy one. Telephone calls seemed incessant, and the

operator downstairs was unintelligent and twice cut Miss Vivian off in

the midst of an important trunk call.

"Hallo! hallo! are you there? Miss Henderson, what the _dickens_ are you

doing? You've cut me off again."

Char banged the receiver down impatiently with one hand, while the other

continued to make rapid calculations on a large sheet of foolscap. She

possessed and exercised to the full the faculty of following two or more

trains of thought at the same moment.

Presently she rang her bell sharply, the customary signal that she was

ready to dictate her letters.

Each department was supposed to possess its own typewriter and to make

use of it, and the services of the shorthand-typist, who was amongst the

few paid workers in the office, were exclusively reserved for Miss

Vivian.

The work entailed was no sinecure, the more especially since Miss

Collins was obdurate as to her time-limit of ten to five-thirty. But it

was never difficult for Miss Vivian to commandeer volunteer typists from

the departments when her enormous correspondence appeared to her to

require it.

"Good-morning, Miss Vivian."

"Good-morning," said Char curtly, unsmiling. Miss Collins always gave

her a sense of irritation. She was so jauntily competent, so consciously

independent of the office.

Shorthand-typists could always find work in the big Questerham

manufacturing works, and Miss Collins had only been secured for the

Supply Depôt with difficulty. She received two pounds ten shillings a

week, never worked overtime, and had every Saturday afternoon off. Miss

Vivian had once, in the early days of Miss Collins, suggested that she

might like to wear uniform, and had received a smiling and unqualified

negative, coupled with a candid statement of Miss Collins's views as to

the undesirability of combining clerical work with the exhausting

activities required in meeting and feeding the troop-trains.

"I should be sorry to think that any of _my_ staff would shirk the

little additional work which brings them into contact with the men who

have risked their lives for England," had been the freezing _finale_

with which the dialogue had been brought to a close by the disgusted

Miss Vivian.

Since then her stenographer had continued to frequent her presence in

transparent and _décolletées_ blouses, with short skirts swinging above

silk-stockinged ankles and suede shoes. Even her red, fluffy curls were

unnecessarily decked with half a dozen sparkling prongs. But she was

very quick and intelligent, and Miss Vivian had perforce to accept her

impudent prettiness and complete independence.

Char never, after the first week, made the mistake of supposing that

Miss Collins would ever fall under that spell of personal magnetism to

which the rest of the office was in more or less complete subjection,

and she consequently wasted no smile upon her morning greeting.

"This is to the Director-General of Voluntary Organizations, and please

do not use abbreviations. Kindly head the letter in full."

Miss Collins's small manicured hand ran easily over her notebook,

leaving a trail of cabalistic signs behind it.

Char leant back, half-closing her eyes in a way which served to

emphasize the tired shadows beneath them, and proceeded with her fluent,

unhampered dictation.

She was seldom at a loss for a word, and had a positive gift for the

production of rhetorical periods which never failed to impress Miss

Delmege, still writing at her corner table. In spite of frequent

interruptions, Char proceeded unconcernedly enough, until at the

eleventh entry of a messenger she broke into an impatient exclamation:

"Miss Delmege, please deal for me!"

Miss Delmege swept forward, annihilating the unhappy bearer of the card

with a look of deep reproach, as she took it from her.

"I'm afraid it's some one to see you," she faltered deprecatingly.

Char frowned and took the card impatiently, and Miss Delmege stood by

looking nervous, as she invariably did when her chief appeared annoyed.

Char Vivian, however, although frequently impatient, was not a

passionate woman, and however much she might give rein to her tongue,

seldom lost control of her temper, for the simple reason that she never

lost sight of herself or of her own effect upon her surroundings.

Her face cleared as she read the card.

"Please ask Captain Trevellyan to come up here."

The messenger disappeared thankfully and Miss Delmege retreated

relievedly to her corner.

Char leant back again in her capacious chair, a sheaf of papers, at

which she only cast an occasional glance, before her.

She was not at all averse to being found in this attitude, which she

judged to be most typical of herself and her work, and for an instant

after Captain Trevellyan's booted tread had paused upon the threshold

she affected unawareness of his presence and did not raise her eyes.

"... I am in receipt of your letter of even date, and would inform you

in reply...."

"Oh, John! So you've come for an official inspection?"

"Since you're never to be seen any other way," he returned, laughing,

and grasping her hand.

"I ought to send you away; we're in the midst of a heavy day's work."

"Don't you think you might call a--a sort of truce of God, for the

moment, and tell me something about this office of yours? I'm much

impressed by all I hear."

Miss Delmege, judging from her chief's smile that this suggestion was

approved of, brought forward a chair, and acknowledged Captain

Trevellyan's protesting thanks with a genteel bend at the waist and a

small, tight smile.

The amenities of social intercourse were always strictly held in check

by the limits of officialdom by Miss Vivian's staff, with the exception

of the unregenerate Miss Collins, who tucked her pencil into her belt,

uncrossed her knees, and rose from her chair.

"I'm afraid I'm interrupting you," said Trevellyan politely, addressing

his remark to Char, but casting a quite unnecessary look at the now

smiling Miss Collins.

"I've nearly finished," said Char.

"Shall I come back later?" suggested Miss Collins gaily, swinging a

turquoise heart from the end of an outrageously long gold chain.

"I will ring if I want you," said Miss Vivian in tones eminently

calculated to allay any assumption of indispensability on the part of

her employée.

With a freezing eye she watched Miss Collins swing jauntily from the

room, her red head cocked at an angle that enabled her to throw a

farewell dimple in the direction of Captain Trevellyan.

"Is that one of your helpers?" was the rather infelicitously worded

inquiry which John was inspired to put as Miss Collins disappeared.

"The office stenographer," said Char curtly.

"Why don't you have poor old Miss Bruce up here? She's longing to help

you--couldn't talk about anything but this place last night."

"Dear old Brucey!" said Char, with more languor than enthusiasm in her

voice. "But there are one or two reasons why it wouldn't quite do to

have her in the office; we have to be desperately official here, you

know. Besides, it's such a comfort to get back in the evenings to some

one who doesn't look upon me as the Director of the Midland Supply

Depôt! I sometimes feel I'm turning into an organization instead of a

human being."

Miss Vivian, needless to say, had never felt anything of the sort, but

there was something rather gallantly pathetic in the half-laughing turn

of the phrase, and it sufficed for a weighty addition to Miss Delmege's

treasured collections of "Glimpses into Miss Vivian's Real Self."

She received yet another such a few minutes later, when Captain

Trevellyan began to urge Miss Vivian to come out with him in the new car

waiting at the office door.

"Do! I'll take you anywhere you want to go, and I really do want you to

see how beautifully she runs. Come and lunch somewhere?"

"I'd love it," declared Char wistfully, "but I really mustn't, Johnnie.

There's so much to do."

Either the cousinly diminutive, or something unusually unofficial in

Miss Vivian's regretful voice, caused the discreet Miss Delmege to rise

and glide quietly from the room.

"Miss Vivian really is most awfully human," she declared to a

fellow-worker whom she met upon the stairs. "What do you think I've left

her doing?"

The fellow-worker leant comfortably against the wall, balancing a wire

basket full of official-looking documents on her hip, and said

interestedly:

"Do tell me."

"Refusing to go for a motor ride with a cousin of hers, an officer, who

wants her to see his new car. And she awfully wants to go--I could see

that--it's only the work that's keeping her."

"I must say she _is_ splendid!"

"Yes, isn't she?"

"I think I saw the cousin, waiting downstairs about a quarter of an hour

ago. Is he a Staff Officer, very tall and large, and awfully fair?"

"Yes. Rather nice-looking, isn't he?"

"Quite, and I do like them to be tall. He's got a nice voice, too. You

know--I mean his voice is nice."

"Yes; he has got a nice voice, hasn't he? I noticed it myself. Of

course, that awful Miss Collins made eyes at him like anything. She was

taking letters when he came in."

"Rotten little minx! I wonder if he's engaged to Miss Vivian?"

"I couldn't say," primly returned Miss Delmege, with a sudden access of

discretion, implying a reticence which in point of fact she was not in a

position to exercise.

She did not go upstairs again until Captain Trevellyan and his motor-car

had safely negotiated the corner of Pollard Street, unaccompanied by

Miss Vivian.

This Miss Delmege ascertained from a ground-floor window, and then

returned to her corner table, wearing an expression of compassionate

admiration that Char was perfectly able to interpret.

"I'm afraid that was an interruption to our morning's work," she said

kindly. "What time is it?"

"Nearly one o'clock, Miss Vivian."

"Oh, good heavens! Just bring me the Belgian files, will you? and then

you'd better go to lunch."

"I can quite well go later," said Miss Delmege eagerly. "I--I thought

perhaps you'd be lunching out today."

"No," drawled Char decisively; "in spite of the inducement of the new

car, I shan't leave the office till I have to go to the Convalescent

Homes. I'll send for some lunch when I want it."

Miss Delmege went to her own lunch with a vexed soul.

"I do wish one could get Miss Vivian to eat something," she murmured

distractedly to her neighbour. "I know exactly what it'll be, you know.

She'll sit there writing, writing, writing, and forget all about food,

and then it'll be two o'clock, and she has to see the M.O. of Health and

somebody else coming at three--and she'll have had no lunch at all."

"Doesn't she ever go out to lunch?"

"Only on slack days, and you know how often we get _them_, especially

now that the work is simply increasing by leaps and bounds every day."

"Couldn't you take her some sandwiches?" asked Mrs. Bullivant from the

head of the table. "I could cut some in a minute."

"Oh, no, thank you. She wouldn't like it. She hates a fuss," Miss

Delmege declared decidedly.

The refusal, with its attendant tag of explanatory ingratitude, was

received in matter-of-fact silence by every one.

Miss Vivian's hatred of a fuss, as interpreted by her secretary, merely

redounded to her credit in the eyes of the Hostel.

They ate indifferent pressed beef and tepid milk-pudding, and those who

could afford it--for the most part accompanied by those who could not

afford it--supplemented the meal with coffee and cakes devoured in haste

at the High Street confectioner's, and then hurried back to the office.

It was nearly three o'clock before Miss Delmege ventured to address her

chief.

"I'm afraid you haven't had lunch. Do let me send for something."

Miss Vivian looked up, flushed and tired.

"Dear me, yes. It's much later than I thought. Send out one of the

Scouts for a couple of buns and a piece of chocolate."

"Oh!" protested Miss Delmege, as she invariably did on receipt of this

menu.

Char Vivian did not raise her eyes from the letter she was rapidly

inditing, and her secretary retreated to give the order.

Miss Plumtree, counting on her fingers and looking acutely distressed,

sat at a small table in the hall from whence the Scout was dispatched.

"Is that _all_ she's having for lunch?" she paused in her pursuit of

ever-elusive averages to inquire in awestruck tones.

"Yes, and she's been simply worked to death this morning. And it's

nearly three now, and she won't get back to dinner till long after ten

o'clock, probably; but she never will have more for lunch, when she's

very busy, than just buns and a penny piece of chocolate. That," said

Miss Delmege, with a sort of desperate admiration--"that is just Miss

Vivian all over!"