Especially am I grateful to Mrs. Dukes, my charwoman in
the Temple. My manservant having, with gay patriotism, joined the defence forces, it is Mrs. Dukes who comes in the mornings. As I shave I can hear her answering the telephone. " No," she says, " it's his maid speaking." Pic- tures of Ariadne in Naxos dance before my eyes. In actual life, however, Mrs. Dukes does not resemble Ariadne. She has passed the canonical age and she wears a hat. Her opinions about the war are always simple and positive. " What I always say is," she mutters as she lays the fire, " that I shan't sleep safe in my bed until we have got rid of that Hitler. Worse than the Kaiser he is." I agree with her that William II was a much more manageable man. " And what's more," she adds, " is that he has bitten off more than he can chew. Take Turkey, Sir, that's a nasty one. And mind you, Sir, no good ever did come out of Russia." She goes on dusting while I read my letters. " Cheek, I call it," she says suddenly.
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