The drive was a small semicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate.
"He was standing by the car waiting," said Marigold.

"Now, sir." He lifted me with his usual cast-iron tenderness into bed and pulled the coverings over me.

"It's a funny time to talk about house repairs at eleven o'clock, at night," he remarked.
"Nothing is funny in war-time," said I.
"Either nothing or everything," said Marigold.

He fussed methodically about the room, picked up an armful of clothes, and paused by the door, his hand on the switch.
"Anything more, sir ?" "Nothing, thank you, Marigold." "Good-night, sir." The room was in darkness.

Marigold shut the door.