We alighted from our taxicab at Victoria Station and soon our train was huffing and puffing through the drea rier parts of south London on our way to Croydon. Belinda had launched into a long description of the villa in Italy. I was half listening as I stared out of the window at those pathetic back gardens with lines of washing strung across them. Because an idea was germinating in my mind. All those men Belinda had mentioned—in London alone on business and having to eat without companionship. What if I started a service to supply each of them with a charming dinner companion of impeccable social pedigree—in other words, moi. It would be better than cleaning houses and at the very least would keep the wolf from the door. At best it might prove to be highly successful and I’d be able to buy myself a decent wardrobe and mingle in society a little more frequently.

I had never been to Croydon Aerodrome before and I was surprised at the hustle and bustle and brand-new buildings. As our taxi approached along a leafy lane, a large biplane roared over our heads and landed on the runway. I had never even seen a real airliner land before at close quarters and it was an impressive sight as the great bird touched down on the tarmac, bounced a few times and then went rolling along as an earthbound machine. To me it was quite remarkable that anything so large and clumsy-looking could actually fly.

As we were walking over to the new white terminal building in the art deco style, the airliner came roaring toward us, propellers whirling, making a terrible din. I paused to watch as steps were wheeled up to it and one by one the passengers disembarked.

“That’s an Imperial Airways Heracles, just in from Paris,” someone behind me remarked.

It all seemed so glamorous and improbable. I tried to picture stepping into that little capsule and being whisked across the globe, above the clouds. My only trips abroad had been across the Channel to Switzerland, thence by uncomfortable train.

“The weather doesn’t look too promising, does it?” Belinda said, brushing away the midges that danced in front of our faces. “It feels like thunder again.”

It did indeed feel extremely muggy and unpleasant. “Where are we to meet Paolo?” I asked.

“He’ll be over by the hangars.” Belinda started off for the more ramshackle part of the airport, dotted with huts and bigger buildings that actually housed aeroplanes. We located Paolo standing beside a shiny new aeroplane that looked incredibly flimsy, so I was relieved when he greeted us with, “Sorry about the weather. We will not be going up this afternoon, I fear. The Met boys have warned us of another storm.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, after we’ve come all this way,” Belinda said. “And I was so looking forward to it.”