"Sometimes. Not very often."

"Where is she now?"

"Oh-abroad."

"Where abroad?"

"France-Portugal. I don't really know."

"Does she ever want to see me?"

Her limpid gaze met his. He didn't know what to reply. Was this a moment for truth? Or for vagueness? Or for a good thumping lie? What could you say to a girl who asked a question of such simplicity, when the answer was of great complexity?

"I don't know," he said unhappily.

Her eyes searched him gravely. Luscombe felt thoroughly ill at ease. He was making a mess of this. The girl must wonder-clearly was wondering. Any girl would.

He said, "You mustn't think-I mean it's difficult to explain. Your mother is, well, rather different from-" Elvira was nodding energetically.

"I know. I'm always reading about her in the papers. She's something rather special, isn't she? In fact, she's rather a wonderful person."

"Yes," agreed the colonel. "That's exactly right. She's a wonderful person." He paused and then went on. "But a wonderful person is very often-" He stopped and started again. "It's not always a happy thing to have a wonderful person for a mother. You can take that from me because it's the truth."

"You don't like speaking the truth very much, do you? But I think what you've just said is the truth."

They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.

Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violence-a violence quite unusual in Bertram's Hotel- and a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertram's Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe.

"Is Lady Sedgwick staying here?" he asked.

Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were ifinty.