Davina groaned inwardly as she thought, Another one! But this one, in his smart navy uniform, at least looked engagingly friendly as he held out his hand-he also looked to be about her own age, which was twenty-five, and he went on ingeniously, as they shook hands, 'It's D. Hastings, isn't it? I checked the passenger list and there was only one Hastings and you appeared to be the only one on your own, you're also not wearing a wedding-ring so I thought, in those circumstances, you might not mind my asking!'

Davina glanced involuntarily at her left hand and opened her mouth, but before she could speak a deep growling voice said, 'Hastings?' And added with considerable biting annoyance, 'Oh, for crying out loud- don't tell me you're Mrs Hastings!'

Davina turned slowly, but she knew who it was. And as their gazes locked for a second time, she realised his eyes weren't entirely grey but had yellow flecks in them and that this man, whom she had a horrible feeling was Mr S. Warwick, was broad-shouldered as well as tall, was probably in his middle thirties and carried an aura of dynamism and, at this moment, angry power that struck out like a rapier. So that, despite wearing faded corduroy trousers and a bulky, nondescript sweater, despite having irregular features and windswept tawny hair and a tendency to freckles, you couldn't fail to be aware that he was very much a man of the world and very used to getting his way…

Davina blinked once, as she thought, so what? She said coolly, 'I am Mrs Hastings, yes. Who are you?'

He didn't answer immediately but he subjected her to a scathing reappraisal then said bitterly, 'I don't believe it! I told them I wanted a competent yet middle-aged, motherly sort of person, and what do they send me? Some aspiring film starlet who's probably just waiting for the right B-grade movie so she can take her clothes off!' he marvelled.