Outside in the corridor I was conscious of a bell ringing and a voice announcing the first sitting for luncheon. Luncheon in the dining car was something I would not normally have allowed myself in my present impecunious state, but today I felt I deserved it. After all, for the foreseeable future I’d not be fending for myself, and someone at Scotland Yard had paid for my train ticket. I got up, glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked respectable then came out of my compartment into the corridor, almost colliding with a person emerging from the next compartment. He was a rather good-looking young man, tall, with blond hair, brilliantined into a set of pretentious waves, and wearing a sporty-looking blazer and slacks.

“Frightfully sorry,” he muttered, then he appeared to really notice me. His eyes traveled over me in the way that eyes usually traveled over Belinda. “Well, hello there,” he said in what I suppose was a slow, sexy drawl. “I say, what a lucky coincidence to find someone like you in the next compartment. Here was I, steeling myself for eight hours of boredom and the crossword puzzle. Instead I bump into a frightfully pretty girl, and what’s more, a pretty girl who appears to be alone.” He glanced up and down the empty corridor. “Look here, I was on my way to the cocktail lounge. Care to accompany me for a drink, old bean? One simply can’t survive without a gin and tonic at this time of day.”

Part of me was tempted to go with him; the other part was affronted at the way he had been mentally undressing me. This didn’t happen to me often and I wasn’t sure whether I should enjoy it or not. As always in moments of stress, I reverted to type. “It’s frightfully kind of you, but I was on my way to the dining car.”

“It’s only the first sitting. Nobody goes to the first sitting except for aged spinsters and vicars. Come on, be a sport. Come and keep me company with a cocktail. It’s a train, you know. The rules of society are bent when traveling.”

“All right,” I said.

“Jolly good. Off we go then.” He took my elbow and steered me in the direction of the cocktail bar. “Are you going up to Scotland for the grouse shoot?” he asked as we maneuvered unsteadily forward against the rocking of the train.

“I’m going to visit family,” I said over my shoulder, “but I expect I’ll do a little shooting. How about you?”