“Why shouldn’t I put Married Man as your occupation?”

“Simply because it isn’t done.  It’s a splendid occupation, but it isn’t recognised as such in formal documents.”

“Another injustice to women.  I shall enter you as Married Man.”

“Enter me as anything you like,” I said, “only let’s get on with the job.”

“Very well; you’re down as Married Man.”

“Now get on with the children.  Muriel first.  What about her?”

“But she’s away having her education finished.”

“Yes,” I said, “but she’ll be back for the holidays, and she’ll want her sugar then, like the rest of us.  And Frederick is away at his school, probably getting much better sugar than we are.  He’ll be wanting his ration in the holidays.  You’d better put a note about that.”

“A note?” she said.  “There’s no room for notes on this form.  All they want is a bald statement.  And that’s just what they can’t get.  They’ll have to take it with the hair on.  I’m cramming in about the holidays, and I hope Lord RHONDDA will be pleased with all the information he’s getting about our family.”

“Keep going,” I said; “you’ve still got the servants to do.”

“Yes, but the kitchenmaid’s gone, and I haven’t engaged another one yet.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” I said.  “Write down—­Kitchenmaid about to be engaged.  Name will be supplied later.’”

“You’re quite brilliant to-day.  There, that’s finished, thank Heaven.”

“Not yet.  You’ve got to address it to the Local Food Office.”

“But I haven’t the remotest where the Local Food Office is.  It can’t have been there more than a short time, anyhow.”

“Hurrah!” I said, looking over her shoulder at the document.  “It says if you are in doubt as to the name of the district of your Local Food Office you are to inquire of any policeman or special constable.”

“That’s all very well,” she said, “but how are we to find a policeman in this remote and peaceful place?  I’ve never seen one.  Have you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I saw one last year on a bicycle.”

“Well, he’s probably arrived somewhere else by this time.  He’s no good to us.”

“No, but we might find a special constable.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, “old Glumgold is a special constable.  I heard him complaining bitterly of having been hauled out of bed during the last air-raid on London.  ‘No nigher to we nor forty mile,’ he said it was.  He’s sure to be among the cabbages.  Be a dear and dash out and ask him.”

So I found Glumgold in among the cabbages and asked him where the Local Food Office was, and he said he’d be gingered if he knew, he or his old woman either; and that was the question they was a-going to arst of us, because to-day was the last day for sending in.  So I advised him to chance it with Nebsbury, which happens to be eight miles off and possesses a High Street; and then I went back to Francesca and told her that Glumgold advised Nebsbury—­which was cowardly, but one can’t spend a lifetime over a fiddle-headed document like that.  Anyhow, we folded it up and posted it, and we’ve heard nothing since.