He asked Elvira if she would like a drink. He was about to propose a bitter lemon, ginger ale, or orangeade, but Elvira forestalled him.

"Thank you. I should like a gin and vermouth."

Colonel Luscombe looked at her rather doubtfully. He supposed girls of-what was she?-sixteen? seventeen?-did drink gin and vermouth. But he reassured himself that Elvira knew, so to speak, correct Greenwich social time. He ordered a gin and vermouth and a dry sherry.

He cleared his throat and asked, "How was Italy?"

"Very nice, thank you."

"And that place you were at, the Contessa what's-her-name? Not too grim?"

"She is rather strict. But I didn't let that worry me." He looked at her, not quite sure whether the reply was not slightly ambiguous.

He said, stammering a little, but with a more natural manner than he had been able to manage before:

"I'm afraid we don't know each other as well as we ought to, seeing I'm your guardian as well as your godfather. Difficult for me, you know-difficult for a man who's an old buffer like me-to know what a girl wants-at least-I mean to know what a girl ought to have. Schools and then after schools-what they used to call finishing in my day. But now, I suppose it's all more serious. Careers, eh? Jobs? All that? We'll have to have a talk about all that sometime. Anything in particular you want to do?"

"I suppose I shall take a secretarial course," said Elvira without enthusiasm.

"Oh. You want to be a secretary?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh-well, then-"

"It's just what you start with," Elvira explained. Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.

"These cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think you'll like living with them? If not-"