Mrs. Dobson, though short and portly, carries her fifty-five years with buoyancy. She is a good-natured woman, with purple cheeks, a wide mouth, and a small nose; one connects something indefinable in her appearance with church on Sundays, so that one learns without surprise that she is a strict Anglican. She lives in the neighbourhood of Cadogan Square, and has five daughters, of whom two are married, to a well-known surgeon and a minor canon respectively. The beauty of the family is Joan, who plays the piano and is considered intellectual and artistic. She spent a year at the Conservatoire in Brussels, and often uses French words in conversation. Effie, the youngest, is an adept at games, and rather alarms her mother by her habit of using slang expressions and the shortness of her skirts.

Soon after the beginning of the War, Lady Whigham having discontinued her days at home, Mrs. Dobson gave up hers, and as the other ladies in her circle followed suit, her chief occupation was gone.

Of course, like her friend Lady Whigham, she joined several committees, but she was rather disappointed to find the meetings less sociable than she expected. What Mrs. Dobson likes is a friendly, chat over a cup of tea; when you sit formally round a green table, you never seem to get to know any one properly.

“It’s so much nicer,” she said to Maud, the eldest unmarried daughter, a bouncing young woman of generous proportions, “to have something at your own house. My idea is to make a pleasure of charity. The most disagreeable things can be got through pleasantly. Now, you’re such a sensible girl, can’t you think of something?”

Mrs. Dobson always speaks of Maud as “such a sensible girl”; spiteful people suggest that this praise is a form of apology for the absence of physical charm.

Maud meditated deeply. “Everybody seems to have thought of everything, mamma, that’s the worst of it. You see, Mrs. Newt has that drawing class for orphan boys; then there’s Mrs. Badger’s fund for giving musical instruction to the children of soldiers and sailors, and the Parrys have dancing classes for them.”

“That’s just it. We ought to be doing something useful of that kind. It’s a public duty for people in our position.”

“But I think we are doing our share, mamma. What with your committee and Effie teaching those Belgian refugee children to play hockey and me at the canteen for ineligible shop assistants.”

“I know, my dear. Still, it would be so nice to have something here—just to bring people together, as it were, in a cosy way.”

Before any conclusion was reached tea was brought, and just then Joan came in from a concert at the Mandolin Hall, bringing a startling piece of news.

“Who do you think I met at the concert, mamma?”

Joan was evidently excited. She spoke almost breathlessly, and went on without waiting for a reply.

“Jack Leclerc is back from the Front on sick leave, and he’s been made a captain.”

Mrs. Dobson glanced at Maud. “Really, my dear!” she said, but her voice was not cordial.

“What else did he tell you?”

“He hardly said anything. In fact, he didn’t tell me even that. Mr. Mayo, the manager, saw him as we were going out and I heard him call him ‘Captain’!”

“Perhaps it’s a mistake, anyhow,” suggested Maud.

“No, it isn’t. I stopped to find out—about the next concert, I mean—and Mr. Mayo told me he had greatly distinguished himself, and I’m not a bit surprised either.” And Joan looked at her mother and her sister with an air of saying, “What did I tell you?”

“Well, he’s sure to come and see us and tell us all about it,” Mrs. Dobson remarked complacently.

“I’m not so sure of that!” Joan spoke sharply.

“Nonsense, dear! he’ll be only too pleased to, especially if we ask him—and now it’s war-time I think we might. Bygones are bygones.”

Joan sighed deeply. It was evident she meant her mother to notice it.

“Surely you’ve got over that little affair? You didn’t seem to mind at the time. Did you now, dear?”

“What could I do with you all against me?” Joan’s face wore an expression of aggrieved reminiscence.

“We thought it for your good, Joan. He was only a music-teacher and had no means at all.”

“He was getting on splendidly, though. You forget that he had been appointed conductor of a big orchestra to tour the provinces—when the War came.”

“Yes, but the War put a complete end to that and to all his prospects. A nice time you’d have had to wait,” said Maud.

“It’s over now, so what’s the good of talking about it? I daresay he’s forgotten all about me long ago.” Joan sighed again and helped herself to tea.

Half an hour later Clara Whigham called up Joan on the telephone. The family was accustomed to these conversations, which were sometimes of long duration. The two girls were intimate. It was through Clara that Joan had taken piano lessons at the Royal School of Music from Jack Leclerc.

When Joan left the room Mrs. Dobson turned to her elder daughter.

“Now, Maud, you’re such a sensible girl—what do you think about this young man turning up? He’s sure to be after Joan again, don’t you think?”

Maud considered the question with her usual conscientious earnestness, while her mother sat anxiously watching her.

“Well, now,” she said at length, “supposing he does?”

“What do you mean, Maud? I don’t understand.”

“Well, I mean that the War has changed everything. Look at Dora Newt. She Wouldn’t accept that young Mr. Firning because he was only a clerk in the bank. Now she’s engaged to him, all because he’s in the Army. Why, you know, mamma, Clara told you herself the other day she meant to have a War wedding.”

“I must say I was shocked that so well brought up a girl should talk so lightly about marrying.”

“I know, mamma, but everybody’s the same now; the War makes all the difference. And I think if Joan still wants him—after all, he’s a captain and—”

“I think perhaps you are right, Maud. The War does make such a difference, doesn’t it? I really think I shall encourage it now that he has made a position for himself.” Mrs. Dobson was interrupted by the return of Joan with another piece of news.

“Oh, mamma,” she said, more breathlessly than ever, “Lady Whigham’s going to give a concert for poor artists, and she wants us to give one, too! Isn’t it a heavenly idea?”

Though Mrs. Dobson knew nothing about art, and supposed that the only reason why people ever were artists was because they were too poor to be anything else, she heartily agreed to the suggestion, coming as it did through Lady Whigham, and being so exactly the form of charity that she approved.

The next morning Mrs. Dobson received a typewritten postcard—

205 CADOGAN SQUARE, S.W.

DEAR MRS. DOBSON,—

To help the artists, 2/6 teas are again being started. I am having one on Thursday the 14th. May I rely on your kind co-operation? Will you come, bring your friends, your work, have an hour’s good music, tea, a chat, and feel that you are doing a great kindness to the artists?

Hoping to see you.

Yours sincerely,

CONSTANCE WHIGHAM.

Music 3.30 to 4.30.

Tea 4.30.

There was a chorus of approval round the Dobsons’ breakfast-table.

Lady Whigham’s concert went off with great Éclat.

It was attended by many ladies, of whom one was a dowager countess, but there were also a bishop and a midshipman. The last had a bad cold and kept on blowing his nose during the performance of the soprano, a lady of strange appearance, said to be a Serbian refugee of noble origin.

Joan did not enjoy the concert as much as the others. She said the pianoforte playing was very indifferent—she wondered what Captain Leclerc, who sat in the front row next to Clara Whigham, thought of it.

The 28th was fixed for the concert at Mrs. Dobson’s. Joan would have liked to write to Jack Leclerc and ask him to recommend the artists, but she wasn’t sure how he would take it, and besides, she did not know his address. Of course she could have asked Clara, but somehow she did not like to.

As Lady Whigham had specially asked Mrs. Dobson to engage performers she was interested in, there was no difficulty and the day of the concert arrived.

Among the first arrivals were Lady and Miss Whigham, attended by Jack Leclerc.

Mrs. Dobson, wreathed in smiles, with Maud at her right hand, received the guests. Effie gave them tea and Joan showed them to their places.

There were five “artists.” Three young men opened the performance with a trio for piano, violin, and ‘cello. The ladies who had had tea knitted and conversed. When the performance was over they went into raptures about it. A middle-aged and melancholy-looking man with a beard followed. He was the feature of the occasion, having been strongly recommended by Lady Whigham as a “finished and accomplished vocalist.” He sang a series of very modern French songs.

“It sounds to me as if something was wrong,” commented Mrs. Dobson to Maud, who replied—

“Sh! mamma, they’re not supposed to have any tune.”

Lady Whigham in the front seat was applauding vigorously, so every one else, especially Mrs. Dobson, did the same, with the result that the accomplished vocalist sang them all over again, making exactly the same faces.

After that an old lady in a yellow wig livened things up with a rendering of Tosti’s “Good-bye” in a cracked contralto. While the audience was applauding, Joan noticed that Jack Leclerc got up. He was making his way gently to the door, evidently anxious to escape observation. Her heart was in her mouth, but she sat on stonily, determined that he should not know she had seen him.

At the door he encountered Mrs. Dobson.

“So sorry, I must run, Mrs. Dobson,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Oh, I am sorry, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc. Can’t you wait till the end? Joan will be so disappointed not to see you.”

“Oh, thank you. The fact is—” Leclerc stopped, looking a little embarrassed. But Mrs. Dobson did not notice this and ran on—

“And what did you think of the concert, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc?”

The musician’s professional conscience forbade a complimentary reply.

“It was very bad,” he said, “except the old Frenchman. That woman had no business to sing in public, and as for those youths who call themselves artists—why aren’t they in the trenches?” And hastily touching Mrs. Dobson’s hand, he slipped away: the expression in her rubicund face was pained as she gazed after him.

After the concert had come to an end and the guests had gradually dispersed, Lady Whigham and Mrs. Dobson counted up the money and discussed how much each performer should receive. This tÊte-À-tÊte with Lady Whigham was what Mrs. Dobson most enjoyed the whole afternoon. Meanwhile Clara drew Joan aside.

“Congratulate me, dearest,” she whispered. “I’m going to marry Captain Leclerc.”