“It’s a day for the gods,” Richard agreed, “and your hat fits you like a halo, Mrs. Tinker.”

“It’s me straw,” Mrs. Tinker said. “I usually seem to change to me straw on the second Sat in April.”

“Aphrodite on her cockleshell couldn’t say fairer. I’ll take two dozen of the yellows.”

She wrapped them up in green paper. “Ten bob to you,” said Mrs. Tinker.

“Ruin!” Richard ejaculated, giving her eleven shillings. “Destitution! But what the hell!”

“That’s right, dear, we don’ care, do we? Tulips, lady? Lovely tulips.”

Carrying his tulips and with his dispatch case tucked under his arm, Richard entered Pardoner’s Place and turned right. Three doors along he came to the Pegasus, a bow-fronted Georgian house that had been converted by Octavius Browne into a bookshop. In the window, tilted and open, lay a first edition of Beijer and Duchartre’s Premieres Comedies Italiennes. A little further back, half in shadow, hung a Negro marionette, very grand in striped silks. And in the watery depths of the interior Richard could just make out the shapes of the three beautifully polished old chairs, the lovely table and the vertical strata of rows and rows of books. He could see, too, the figure of Anelida Lee moving about among her uncle’s treasures, attended by Hodge, their cat. In the mornings Anelida, when not rehearsing at her club theatre, helped her uncle. She hoped that she was learning to be an actress. Richard, who knew a good deal about it, was convinced that already she was one.

He opened the door and went in.

Anelida had been dusting and wore her black smock, an uncompromising garment. Her hair was tied up in a white scarf. He had time to reflect that there was a particular beauty that most pleased when it was least adorned and that Anelida was possessed of it.

“Hullo,” he said. “I’ve brought you some tulips. Good morning, Hodge.” Hodge stared at him briefly, jerked his tail, and walked away.