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thought she would stand upright until she fainted with exhaustion, or until morning.
    Then a car appeared.
    Its dim side lights gave very little illumination, but by comparison with the previous pitch-blackness it seemed like daylight. She saw that she was, indeed, standing in the middle of the road, and she scurried to the pavement to get out of the way of the car. She was in a square that seemed vaguely familiar. The car passed her and turned a corner, and she hurried after it, hoping to see a landmark that would tell her where she was. Reaching the corner, she saw the car at the far end of a short, narrow street of small shops, one of which was a milliner’s patronized by Mother; and she realized she was just a few yards from Marble Arch.
    She could have wept with relief.
    At the next corner she waited for another car to light up the way ahead; then she walked on into Mayfair.
    A few minutes later she stood outside Claridge’s Hotel. The building was blacked out, of course, but she was able to locate the door, and she wondered whether to go in.
    She did not think she had enough money to pay for a room, but her recollection was that people did not pay their hotel bill until they left. She could take a room for two nights, go out tomorrow as if she expected to return later, join the A.T.S., then phone the hotel and tell them to send the bill to Father’s lawyer.
    She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
    Like most public buildings that were open at night, the hotel had rigged up a double door, like an airlock, so that people could go in and out without the interior lights showing on the outside. Margaret let the outer door close behind her, then went through the second door and into the grateful light of the hotel foyer. She felt a tremendous surge of relief. This was normality: the nightmare was over.
    A young night porter was dozing at the desk. Margaret coughed, and he woke up, startled and confused. Margaret said: “I need a room.”
    “At this time of night?” the man blurted.
    “I got caught in the blackout,” Margaret explained. “Now I can’t get home.”
    The man began to gather his wits. “No luggage?”
    “No,” Margaret said guiltily; then she was struck by a thought, and added: “Of course not—I didn’t plan to get stranded.”
    He looked at her rather strangely. Surely, Margaret thought, he could not refuse her. He swallowed, rubbed his face and pretended to consult a book. What was the matter with the man? Making up his mind, he closed the book and said: “We’re full.”
    “Oh, come on, you must have something—”
    “You’ve had a fight with your old man, haven’t you?” he said with a wink.
    Margaret could hardly believe this was happening. “I can’t get home,” she repeated, as the man had obviously failed to understand her the first time.
    “I can’t help that,” he said. With a sudden access of wit he added: “Blame Hitler.”
    He was rather young. “Where is your supervisor?” she said.
    He looked offended. “I’m in charge, until six o’clock.”
    Margaret looked around. “I’ll just have to sit in the lounge until morning,” she said wearily.
    “You can’t do that!” the porter said, looking scared. “A young girl alone, with no luggage, spending the night in the lounge? It’s more than my job’s worth.”
    “I’m not a young girl,” she said angrily. “I’m Lady Margaret Oxenford.” She hated to use her title but she was desperate.
    However, it did no good. The porter gave her a hard, insolent look, and said: “Oh, yeah?”
    Margaret was about to shout at him when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the door, and realized she had a black eye. On top of that her hands were filthy and her dress was torn. She recalled that she had bumped into a pillar box and sat on the floor of a train. No wonder the porter would not give her a room. She said desperately: “But you can’t turn me out into the blackout!”
    “I can’t do