Elliot found himself on the left of the table between Brenda and Lydia. There was a monstrous silver épergne between him and Phyllida on the other side of the table. The decoration of holly and white chrysanthemums which it supported afforded brief views of her when she turned, now to Mark on her left, and again to Albert on her right. A chance-caught glimpse of dark curling hair, of the turn of a cheek no longer pale but vividly coloured-these came his way, but not much more. In the face of sharp exasperation he told himself that what he was feeling was relief. Why should he want to look at Phyllida? There was more between them than a clutter of vegetation. He turned to Lydia. Her eyes were sparkling up at him.

“Why did he say grace? He doesn’t as a rule, so we all sat down. Do you suppose we’re going to receive something very special?”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Do you know what it is?”

He said drily, “Wait and see.” And then, “Where have you been, and what are you doing?”

“Been? All over the place. Doing? My duty of course. Don’t I always?”

“Well, shall we say what form has it been taking? You’re not a W.A.A.F., or a Wren, or an A.T., are you, by any chance?”

The green eyes looked mournful, the red head was shaken.

“I feel I might go off pop if I signed papers and promised to do what I was told. I just sit in an office and translate things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Ssh! Not a word! What would you say if I told you I could read Icelandic at sight?”

Elliot laughed.

“I should say you were lying.”

“And you’d be too-too right. What it is to be a brain! How many things have you invented since 1941? It was 1941 the last time I saw you, wasn’t it?”