"That's very kind of you. Is it another air-raid?"
"No; besides, you're all quite blasées about them now. Miss Jones, single-handed, could cope with—"
"What did you want to warn me about?" interrupted Char, with more abruptness than apprehension in her voice.
"A rescue-party. Miss Bruce is so much upset about you, because she thinks the Hostel is killing you, that she's arranged a crusade to deliver you."
"Miss Bruce means very well, but surely she knows by this time that I don't admit of interference with my work. What does she want to do?"
"You'll see in a minute. I can hear the rescue-party at the door now, I think. They were close behind me."
Char swung round abruptly, and was engulfed in a furry embrace on the instant.
"My dear, pathetic martyr of a child! I've come to take you out of this at once. I hear you've been through the most unspeakable time at that Hostel!"
Char disengaged herself from Mrs. Willoughby's clasp, and endeavoured to silence the intolerable yapping sound that was going on apparently beneath her feet.
"That's Puffles—wicked little boy, be quiet. He would come with me, though I told him that all good little boys went to bye-bye at this hour; but he can't bear me out of his sight, you know. Isn't that too quaint? Quiet, Puff! He understands every single word that's said to him, you know. 'Oo clever, clever little man, aren't 'oo? Everything except talk, 'oo can."