C. D. appeared in the drawing-room even later than I so we had a chance for only one small exchange before going in to dinner. However, it did much to make a shambles of the meal for me.

“You’re late,” I said and then I looked at him more closely, for although brushed and combed and freshly shaved there was about him an indefinable air of chaos, a curious rumpledness about his features. “What have you been doing?” I asked.

“Using you for imagery,” he replied blandly. “Are you shocked?”

I wasn’t right away. I didn’t even get it right away. And if he hadn’t pointed up the first part of the remark by adding the second part I probably wouldn’t have. I probably would have regarded it as merely cryptic, what-the-hell. But finally I got it all right. And when I did, I felt myself go bright pink. I stared hard at my drink. “No ice,” I mumbled shakily. “How quaint. Just like they’re always telling you in those Come to Britain books.”