She found herself alone in the room, and sat down at what was apparently her desk, at the lightless end of the room. She uncovered the typewriter, unlocked the drawers. A sheet of instructions had been left on the blotter and was signed Noreen. Miss Kingslake switched on her desk lamp and began to read. “Two pink flimsies Beirut, one white flimsy Addis—”

Mihalis came in with something in his hand.

“It’s a light meter.” She took it from him and put it on the desk. “I suppose it belongs to Rees.”

Mihalis lingered.

“Thanks. I’ll see he gets it.” She picked up the list again. “Headquarters all yellow flimsies.”

Mihalis leaned forward. Miss Kingslake looked up.

“It takes one hour to Lindos.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mihalis.” With the best will in the world, she could not help feeling as if a code word had been slipped to her in prison.

The Captain’s boots, having metal on them, were very loud on the tiled floor. “What was the driver doing here?”

“He left this.”

“I’ll take charge of that. Slack, that driver. Needs bracing up.”

“Really?”

“Like the rest of them. Go into that room of theirs down the corridor, they’re acting up all day long. Good mind to report the lot of them, what-have-you and so on. Not the Europeans, of course, just the local staff.”

“The local staff are the Europeans.”

“Paid far too much of course.” The Captain was at that moment drawing an allowance from the Organization in addition to his Army pay. “The way this outfit of yours throws money around. Not theirs, of course, so they feel free.”

Miss Kingslake lifted out the contents of her In-tray.

“Don’t talk to me about drivers. Had a series of drivers in Kashmir, biggest lot of clots, what-have-you and so on. Rented a villa there, awkward driveway, narrow entrance between two concrete posts. Just room for the car, inch or two to spare. Made it a condition of keeping the drivers—they had to go through without slowing down. One scratch and they were washed up, through, no reference.” The Captain laughed and crashed his mailed feet delightedly on the tiles below his desk. “They sniveled at first, of course, but they needed their jobs and they made it their business to learn.” He tipped his chair back, rummaged in the desk drawer for cigarettes. “Don’t talk to me about drivers.”

Clelia Kingslake was setting out the incoming cables, like cards for solitaire. She could see the concrete blocks looming, feel the sweat on her brow and on her hands gripping the wheel. And to think that only yesterday she had wept over Matthew Arnold.