Bridget was very like her mother but nobody would have thought of comparing her to the Sistine Madonna. She had inherited too much of Paddy O’Brien’s brilliance for that. There was a fine-drawn look about her mouth. Her eyes, set wide apart, were deep under strongly marked brows. She had the quality of repose but when she smiled all the corners of her face tipped up and then she looked more like her father than her mother. “Sensitive,” thought Miss Harris, with a mild flash of illumination. “I hope she stands up to it all right. Nuisance when they get nerves.”

She returned Bridget’s punctilious “Good morning” and watched her kiss her mother.

“Darling Donna,” said Bridget, “you are so sweet.”

“Hullo, my darling,” said Lady Carrados, “here we are plotting away for all we’re worth. Miss Harris and I have decided on the eighth for your dance. Uncle Arthur writes that we may have his house on that date. That’s General Marsdon, Miss Harris. I explained, didn’t I, that he is lending us Marsdon House in Belgrave Square? Or did I?”

“Yes, thank you, Lady Carrados. I’ve got all that.”

“Of course you have.”

“It’s a mausoleum,” said Bridget, “but it’ll do. I’ve got a letter from Sarah Alleyn, Donna. Her grandmother, your Lady Alleyn, you know, is taking a flat for the season. Donna, please, I want Sarah asked for everything. Does Miss Harris know?”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Carrados. I beg pardon,” said Miss Harris in some confusion, “I should have said, Miss O’Brien, shouldn’t I?”

“Help, yes! Don’t fall into that trap whatever you do,” cried Bridget. “Sorry, Donna darling, but really!”

“Ssh!” said Lady Carrados mildly. “Are those your letters?”

“Yes. All the invitations. I’ve put a black mark against the ones I really do jib at and all the rest will just have to be sorted out. Oh, and I’ve put a big Y on the ones I want specially not to miss. And—”