"Yes. We open in about a month, with a new musical show."
"What's it called?"
"I never can remember: they change the title about once a day. Not that it really matters. 'Too Many Girls' is the latest; and pretty suitable, too! My dear, you simply can't get men for the theatre nowadays! The good ones have all joined up, and the rotters daren't walk on. You ought to see our chorus men! They are all about seventy, or else they have one lung, or one rib, or one ear, or something. Still, we carry on somehow. Are you driving a car for war work?"
"Yes. I don't really feel that I ought to be doing it; it's too much like fun. I was in a canteen at first, but I got rather run down and hard up, and I was offered this job as a chauffeur, so I took it. I think I should go back to the canteen if I could afford it. I never see any soldiers now. At the canteen one could do something for them, poor things."
"They're lambs!" agreed the passenger—"especially the young officers. Are you engaged?"
Marjorie, very much occupied in negotiating Piccadilly Circus, nodded.
"An officer?"
Marjorie nodded again.
"My boy's an officer, too. What's your name, by the way?"
"Marjorie Clegg."