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Peggy Tennyson, late member of the Live Wire Quartette, in which joyous body she had earned her nickname of Buzzy by buzzing harmoniously whenever she forgot the words of the songs—which was more often than not—fairly beamed with delight at this unexpected reunion with a fellow songster.

Buzzy Tennyson was not “little.” She was almost massive. “Amazonic” was the term she applied to herself. She was a nurse, and admirably fitted for her vocation. She was reputed to stand no nonsense from anybody. Her pointed demand to know the cause of Patricia’s restraint—which became obvious after the first greeting—was typical of her.

“Have you married a millionaire of something, Pat? Don’t you want to know the old crowd now?”

“Don’t be silly, Buzzy,” protested Patricia, pressing the big woman’s hand. “Of course, I’m delighted to see you, old thing.”

“Well, for God’s sake, act like it!” cried the exuberant Buzzy. “Come and have a cup of tea, for old time’s sake.”

“I can’t, Buzzy. I’m sorry. I’m travelling on the express.”

“Wellington?”

“Yes.”

“Got an appointment in Wellington?”

“Not exactly———”

“Anyone waiting for you?”

“N—no———”

“Anyone expecting you?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve got plenty of time for a cup of tea. Where’s your luggage?”

“But, Buzzy———”

“Where is it?”

“I’ve checked it through.”

“Have you? We’ll soon fix that. Where are your checks?”

“Don’t be silly, Buzzy———”