G.J. said: 

“Sir Stephen, you are just too late for the resolution as to Lady Queenie Paulle.”

“I deeply apologise, Mr. Chairman,” replied the aged but active Sir Stephen, nervously stroking his rather long beard.  “I hope, however, that I may be allowed to associate myself very closely with the resolution.”  After a suitable pause and general silence he went on:  “I’ve been detained by that Nurse Smaith that my sub-committee’s been having trouble with.  You’ll find, when you come to them, that she’s on my sub-committee’s minutes.  I’ve just had an interview with her, and she says she wants to see the executive.  I don’t know what you think, Mr. Chairman—­” He stopped.

G.J. smiled.

“I should have her brought in,” said the lady who had previously spoken.  “If I might suggest,” she added.

A boy scout, who seemed to have long ago grown out of his uniform, entered with a note for somebody.  He was told to bring in Nurse Smaith.

She proved to be a rather short and rather podgy woman, with a reddish, not rosy, complexion, and red hair.  The ugly red-bordered cape of the British Red Cross did not suit her better than it suited any other wearer.  She was in full, strict, starched uniform, and prominently wore medals on her plenteous breast.  She looked as though, if she had a sister, that sister might be employed in a large draper’s shop at Brixton or Islington.  In saying “Gid ahfternoon” she revealed the purity of a cockney accent undefiled by Continental experiences.  She sat down in a manner sternly defensive.  She was nervous and abashed, but evidently dangerous.  She belonged to the type which is courageous in spite of fear.  She had resolved to interview the committee, and though the ordeal frightened her, she desperately and triumphantly welcomed it.

“Now, Nurse Smaith,” said G.J. diplomatically.  “We are always very glad to see our nurses, even when our time is limited.  Will you kindly tell the committee as briefly as possible just what your claim is?”

And the nurse replied, with medals shaking: 

“I’m claiming, as I’ve said before, two weeks’ salary in loo of notice, and my fare home from France; twenty-five francs salary and ninety-five francs expenses.  And I sy nothing of excess luggage.”

“But you didn’t come home.”

“I have come home, though.”

One of those members whose destiny it is always to put a committee in the wrong remarked: 

“But surely, Nurse, you left our employ nearly a year ago.  Why didn’t you claim before?”

“I’ve been at you for two months at least, and I was ill for six months in Turin; they had to put me off the train there,” said Nurse Smaith, getting self-confidence.

“As I understand,” said G.J.  “You left us in order to join a Serbian unit of another society, and you only returned to England in February.”

“I didn’t leave you, sir.  That is, I mean, I left you, but I was told to go.”