The spectacled Mr. Kurata Kan was on his feet yelping a fraction of a second quicker than Ormerod.

“Top price,” cried Flossie shrilly. “Top price! Isn’t it, darling? We’ve got top price, haven’t we? That dear little Jap!”

A ripple of laughter ran through the hall. The auctioneer grinned. The two men near the stage-door moved away, their hands over their mouths. Arthur Rubrick’s face, habitually cyanosed, deepened to a richer purple. Flossie clapped her white gloves together and rose excitedly. “Isn’t he too sweet?” she demanded. “Arthur, isn’t he a pet?”

“Flossie, for God’s sake,” Arthur Rubrick muttered.

But Flossie made a series of crisp little nods in the direction of Mr. Kurata Kan and at last succeeded in attracting his attention. His eyelids creased, his upper lip lifted in a crescent over his long teeth and he bowed.

“There!” said Flossie in triumph as she swept out at the stage-door, followed by her discomfited husband. “Isn’t that splendid?”

He piloted her into a narrow yard. “1 wish you wouldn’t make me quite so conspicuous, my dear,” he said. “I mean, waving to that Jap. We don’t know him or anything.”

“No,” cried Flossie. “But we’re going to. You’re going to call on him, darling, and we shall ask him to Mount Moon for the week-end.”

“Oh, no, Flossie. Why? Why on earth?”

“I’m all for promoting friendly relations. Besides, he’s paid top price for my wool. He’s a sensible man. I want to meet him.”

“Grinning little pip-squeak. I don’t like ’em, Floss. Do you in the eye for tuppence, the Japs would. Any day. They’re our natural enemies.”

“Darling, you’re absolutely antediluvian. Before we know where we are you’ll be talking about the Yellow Peril.”

She tossed her head and a lock of hair dyed a brilliant gold slipped down her forehead. “Do remember this is 1939,” said Flossie.

1942