The waitress, a dainty blonde with fluffy hair and the face of a mischievous imp, called out to him, “Sit down, love. I'll be over in a minute.”

Randolph didn't want to sit down in this place but his knees were threatening to give way with shock, so he found a corner table that was partly concealed by the palm, and tried to be inconspicuous. It was hard because, surrounded by men in shirtsleeves and overalls, he was the only one in a proper suit.

Where was the high-class establishment of his imagining? A mirage. Instead, this. This! And he'd committed himself to spending the night in the place. He'd told himself that no sacrifice was too great for his country. Now he began to wonder if he'd been wrong.

The waitress was gathering plates vigorously. At the table behind her a young man leaned across and patted her behind, making her turn with a little squeal and a reproving, “Hey, watch it!”

“Sorry,” the young man said, grinning. “Couldn't help myself.”

“Looks to me like you were helping yourself,” she riposted. “Keep your hands off or I'll set Mike on you.” She was laughing as she eased away from him, wriggling gracefully to avoid his hand again.

A good-natured young woman, Randolph thought, but hardly the person he sought.

Another waitress bustled out from the kitchen. She was dark, comely and extremely well built. She called out, “Dottie, do you want me to do the corner table?”

“No thanks Bren, I've grabbed him,” the blonde sang back. She waved at Randolph and called cheerily, “You don't mind me grabbing you, do you love?”

“Not at all,” he replied politely, trying to conceal his growing dismay. Dottie! Dorothea? This was Princess Dorothea?