"But why"—I began, and then remembered. I had no need to ask why she had not come to me to beg, or to accept charity. So I substituted—"Where are you staying?" She mentioned an east-end street, but before I could get any further particulars, a large and befurred lady (Russian sables, bought before the War, let us hope) loomed down upon us, and in a trice Mrs. Montrose had disappeared. After tea had been dispensed and the business of the afternoon well launched, I slipped out into the hall, and even explored the serving-room beyond, but no familiar black-robed figure was to be seen. I inquired of the maids. "Oh, yes, there was a person helping here at first, but she's gone. She had to leave early."
I haven't seen her since. I don't expect to see her again. After I got home I reckoned up the children's ages. Reginald was eighteen that fall—just drafting age.
