“Have you answered it?”

“Not yet,” Troy mumbled.

“It was written six days ago,” scolded Miss Bostock.

“I know. I must. How shall I word the telegram: ‘Deeply regret am not house painter’?

Katti Bostock paused, her square fingers still planted under the crest. “I thought only peers had those things peppered about on their notepaper,” she said.

“You’ll notice it’s a cross, with ends like an anchor. Hence Ancred, one supposes.”

“Oh! I say!” said Katti, rubbing her nose with her blue finger. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Didn’t you do a set of designs for that production of Macbeth?”

“I did. That may have given them the idea.”

“Good Lord! Do you remember,” said Miss Bostock, “we saw him in the play. You and Roderick, and I? The Bathgates took us. Before the war.”

“Of course I do,” said Troy. “He was magnificent, wasn’t he?”

“What’s more, he looked magnificent. What a head. Troy, do you remember, we said—”

“So we did. Katti,” said Troy, “you’re not by any chance going to suggest—”

“No, no, of course not. Good Lord, no! But it’s rum that we did say it would be fun to have a go at him in the grand manner. Against the backcloth they did from your design; lolloping clouds and a black simplified castle form. The figure cloaked and dim.”

“He wouldn’t thank you for that, I dare say. The old gentleman probably wishes to appear in a flash of lightning, making faces. Well, I’d better send the telegram. Oh, damn!” Troy sighed. “I wish I could settle down to something.”

Miss Bostock glowered thoughtfully at Troy. Four years of intensive work at pictorial surveys for the army, followed by similar and even more exacting work for U.N.R.R.A., had, she thought, tried her friend rather high. She was thin and a bit jumpy. She’d be better if she could do more painting, thought Katti, who did not regard the making of pictorial maps, however exquisite, as full compensation for the loss of pure art. Four years’ work with little painting and no husband. “Thank God,” Katti thought, “I’m different. I get along nicely.”