Marjorie turned, and gaped in the most unladylike manner. The elderly civilian in the bad hat had strayed away from his escort, and now stood at her elbow—revealed as Lord Eskerley, to whom she had once been presented at a regimental gymkhana at Craigfoot. Apparently he was aware that the Olympian deputation were being treated to a display of "eyewash." Apparently, also; he knew Marjorie. Not only Marjorie, but Marjorie's most private affairs. Altogether, he seemed to know too much.
"By the way," continued his lordship characteristically, "how do you do? I forgot." They shook hands. "Lovely day, isn't it? You look overworked. What are your hours here?"
Marjorie told him.
"What is your particular métier?"
Marjorie introduced the tea-urns.
"No woman, however young or muscular, should carry heavy things about," said Lord Eskerley. "Razors to cut grindstones; as usual! Would you like a change of occupation?"
"Indeed I should," replied Marjorie—"so long as it was helping things along, you know."
"What can you do?"
Marjorie fingered the dimple on her chin dolefully.
"Not much, I'm afraid. I don't know anything about nursing, or shorthand, or anything useful."