a brother-officer, and I could tell you what she thinks and feels in her own language.  But the class whence Mrs. Tufton proceeded is out of my social ken.  She was stale-drunk; she had, doubtless, a vile headache; probably she felt twinges of remorse and apprehension of possible police interference.  As a counter-irritant to this, she had worked herself into an astounding temper.  She would give up none of her husband’s belongings.  She would have the law on them if they tried.  Bad enough it was for her husband to come home after a year’s desertion, leaving her penniless, and the moment he set eyes on her begin to knock her about; but for sergeants suffering under a blight and characterless females masquerading as hospital nurses to come and ride rough-shod over an honest working woman was past endurance.  Thus I paraphrase my memory of the lady’s torrential speech.  “Lay your hand on me,” she cried, “and I’ll summons you for assault.”

As Marigold could not pass her without laying hands on her, and as the laying of hands on her, no matter how lightly, would indubitably have constituted an assault in the eyes of the law, Marigold stiffly confronted her and tried to argue.

The neighbours listened in sardonic amusement.  Betty stood by, with the spots burning on her cheek, clenching her slender capable fingers, furious at defeat.  I was condemned to sit in the car a few yards off, an anxious spectator.  In a moment’s lull of the argument, Betty interposed: 

“Every woman here knows what you have done.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“And you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Mrs. Tufton retorted—­ “taking an honest woman’s husband away from her.”

It was time to interfere.  I called out: 

“Betty, let us get back.  I’ll fix the man up with everything he wants.”

At the moment of her turning to me a telegraph boy hopped from his bicycle on the off-side of the ear and touched his cap.

“I’ve a telegram for Mrs. Connor, sir.  I recognised the car and I think that’s the lady.  So instead of going on to the house—­”

I cut him short.  Yes.  That was Mrs. Connor of Telford Lodge.  He dodged round the car and, entering the garden path, handed the orange-coloured envelope to Betty.  She took it from him absent-mindedly, her heart and soul engaged in the battle with Mrs. Tufton.  The boy stood patient for a second or two.

“Any answer, ma’am?”

She turned so that I could see her face in profile, and impatiently opened the envelope and glanced at the message.  Then she stiffened, seeming in a curious way to become many inches taller, and grew deadly white.  The paper dropped from her hand.  Marigold picked it up.

The diversion of the telegraph boy had checked Mrs. Tufton’s eloquence and compelled the idle interest of the neighbours.  I cried out from the car: 

“What’s the matter?”

But I don’t think Betty heard me.  She recovered herself, took the telegram from Marigold, and showed it to the woman.