“No. Of course not. You take her to a designer and let her view their collection. Much more civilized—gilt and brocade sofas, chandeliers, champagne and privacy. It’s what I’d do all the time if I could afford it. And London has some wonderful designers’ salons now. Schiaparelli has a salon here now, you know. And darling Molyneux.” (She pronounced it Molynucks, as one does.) “And Norman Hartnell is an up-and-coming who is worth visiting. I know some of the other royals like him. A little too stuffy for me, but then, I design my own clothes.”

“But what if Princess Marina wants to shop for undergarments?”

“Then you go to a designer who makes those things. Lucile still is the one, I suppose. Really, Georgie, you haven’t a clue, have you?”

“I’ve never had the money to have a clue,” I said. “When I came out we had our dressmaker copy from pictures of fashionable gowns. The result wasn’t always successful. Golly, I should find out if Marina has the money to afford designers. I was told that her family was not at all well off, but she looks stunningly chic to me.”

“Anyone who has lived in Paris knows how to look chic by nature. They take a little black dress, throw on a scarf and voila,” Belinda said. “If ever I can open my own salon I’ll show British matrons that they don’t have to be dowdy.”

“You just have to marry a rich husband, Belinda,” I said.

“Just like that,” she said, turning away. “One doesn’t always get what one wants in life, does one?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, upset by the note of bitterness in her voice. “But why don’t you come with us when I take the princess around London. You know all the chic places and where to buy cosmetics and get one’s hair done. And then there are nightclubs. What if she wants to go out on the town at night? I’ve never even been to a nightclub. Where does one start?”

“Don’t take her to the Embassy,” Belinda said quickly. “She’s likely to meet her future husband there, and God knows who he might be with.”

“Not the Embassy,” I repeated.

“Ciro’s is safe, I suppose. Usually has a good cabaret. And then there’s the Kit-Cat and El Morocco. Also safe. But it’s not really done to go to a club without an escort. Only ladies of the night do that.”

“I suppose her future husband might want to come with us,” I said.

“I doubt it. He’d be bound to run into one of his past conquests who might say the wrong thing. He has been far too friendly with far too many people.”