She put the letter aside and picked up another. Soon Miss Harris’s pen was travelling busily over her pad. She made notes for the acceptance, refusal and issuing of invitations. She made lists of names with notes beside them and she entered into a long discussion about Lady Carrados’s ball.

‘I’m getting Dimitri—the Shepherd Market caterer, you know—to do the whole thing,’ explained Lady Carrados. It seems to be the—’ she paused oddly ‘—safest way.’

‘Well, he is the best,’ agreed Miss Harris. ‘You were speaking of expense, Lady Carrados. Dimitri works out at about twenty-five shillings a head. But that’s everything. You do know where you are and he is good.’

‘Twenty-five? Four hundred, there’ll be, I think. How much is that?’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Miss Harris calmly.

‘Oh, dear, it is a lot, isn’t it? And then there’s the band. I do think we must have champagne at the buffet. It saves that endless procession to the supper-room which I always think is such a bore.’

‘Champagne at the buffet,’ said Miss Harris crisply. ‘That will mean thirty shillings a head, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, how awful!’

‘That makes Dimitri’s bill six hundred. But, of course, as I say, Lady Carrados, that will be every penny you pay.’

Lady Carrados stared at her secretary without replying. For some reason Miss Harris felt as if she had made another faux pas. There was, she thought, such a very singular expression in her employer’s eyes.

‘I should think a thousand pounds would cover the whole of the expenses, band and everything,’ she added hurriedly.

‘Yes, I see,’ said Lady Carrados. ‘A thousand.’

There was a tap at the door and a voice called: ‘Donna!’

‘Come in, darling!’

A tall, dark girl carrying a pile of letters came into the room. Bridget was very like her mother but nobody would have thought of comparing her to the Sistine Madonna. She had inherited too much of Paddy O’Brien’s brilliance for that. There was a fine-drawn look about her mouth. Her eyes, set wide apart, were deep under strongly marked brows. She had the quality of repose but when she smiled all the corners of her face tipped up and then she looked more like her father than her mother. ‘Sensitive,’ thought Miss Harris, with a mild flash of illumination. ‘I hope she stands up to it all right. Nuisance when they get nerves.’ She returned Bridget’s punctilious ‘Good morning’ and watched her kiss her mother.

‘Darling Donna,’ said Bridget, ‘you are so sweet.’

‘Hullo, my darling,’ said Lady Carrados, ‘here we are plotting away for all we’re worth. Miss Harris and I have decided on the eighth for your dance. Uncle Arthur writes that we may have his house on that date. That’s General Marsdon, Miss Harris. I explained, didn’t I, that he is lending us Marsdon House in Belgrave Square? Or did I?’

‘Yes, thank you, Lady Carrados. I’ve got all that.’

‘Of course you have.’