Mr. Moray may have felt himself slipping. He may have felt that he had been harsh, he may have decided that he had gone far enough. He stopped looking at her as if he might be about to proceed to violence, allowed his features to relax, and dismissed the subject.

“That will be enough about that. If I’m not interrupting you-”

The fan mail might not have existed. That was the bother about David, when he was there, Sally found it quite dreadfully difficult to remember things like being a secretary or having work to do. Afterwards she would kick herself and work overtime to make up, but for the moment she couldn’t have cared less about the professor and his split infinitives, or the other people who were waiting for autographs and advice. She said quickly,

“Oh, no. This is just Marigold’s fan mail.”

“Well then, I came down to talk to you. About that picture of mine. The Listener-it’s all right about its being sold. I went round to the gallery and met the man who was enquiring about it, and he asked what I wanted for it, so I said two hundred, and when I heard myself say it I thought I’d gone out of my mind. But he just nodded and said that was all right, and he liked it very much, and I’d got a future before me.”

“Oh, David!”

It was naturally meat and drink to have Sally looking at him like that, but he kept his head.

“His name is Bellingdon, and Masters- you know, the Art Gallery people-they say he has one of the best private collections in the south, and when he buys any new stuff it means that other people are likely to be interested too. Anyhow there it is, marked ‘Sold’ and the cheque in my pocket, so I thought it would be a good plan if we were to go out and celebrate.”