The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders.
“I will inform my superior, Captain Rowland,” answered the lieutenant gravely. “You are—”
“Mrs. Chadsey Smythe, in command of the welfare workers.”
The officer turned to Grace inquiringly.
“Mrs. Grace Gray, former ambulance driver on the western front, now a welfare worker on the march to the Rhine, sir,” answered Grace meekly, out of the corners of her eyes observing that the lieutenant was passing a hand over his face, to hide the grin that had appeared there.
“Anything to say, Mrs. Gray?”
“I think not, sir, except that we should be moving.”
“Yes, get me a car at once, if you will be so good,” urged Mrs. Smythe.
“If I may offer a suggestion, sir, I do not think it would be prudent for either Mrs. Smythe or the others to ride in. We would all be chilled through and on the verge of pneumonia. My advice, if I may offer it, would be that we walk.”
“Walk? Never!” exclaimed the supervisor. “I demand a car. It is my right to make such a demand.”