“The lady and the gamekeeper have a continuous roll in the hay together and describe it with four-letter farm words.”

“How disgusting,” Fig said. “I bet the writer has never seen a real gamekeeper, or he’d never have thought they had sex appeal. They smell of dead rabbits, for one thing.”

“One of these days you’ll go too far, Wallis,” Mr. Simpson said sharply.

She glanced up at him, then put a hand up to his cheek and chuckled again. “I don’t think so. I believe I know exactly how far I can go.”

The big man in the party now came over to me, his hand extended. “So you’re the young lady of the family, are you? Glad to meet you. I’m Earl Sanders. This is my wife, Babe.”

I shook hands all around. I noticed Mrs. Simpson didn’t offer hers.

“So who is up for whist or bridge?” Wallis Simpson asked. “Or shall we be devils and play roulette?”

“I’m afraid we don’t possess a roulette wheel,” Fig said frostily. “If we choose to gamble, we go to Monte Carlo.”

“Don’t worry, Earl’s brought his own,” Mrs. Simpson said. “He can’t go more than a day without gambling, can you, Earl honey?”

“The question is where are we going to play without freezing to death and without having the cards blown away by a howling gale?” the Countess Von Sauer asked. “Surely not in here.”

“I was sensible enough to bring my mink,” Babe said. Her morning keep-fit regimen was certainly paying off. She hadn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her and made the angular Mrs. Simpson look positively feminine. No wonder she was cold. She turned to her husband and retrieved the fur from him, wrapping it snugly around her shoulders. “I even wore it in bed last night. My dears, the draft from that window. It wouldn’t close properly and there was a hurricane blowing.”

“Will the drawing room not do?” Fig asked. “I can have the servants move back the sofas and set up tables.”

“There are some rather loud young men in there, smoking up a storm and working their way through the whiskey decanter,” Mrs. Simpson said.

“See, what did I tell you?” Fig muttered.

“Then it will have to be in here,” Fig said out loud. “I’ll call the servants.”

“How about that nice little room that looks out on the lake?” Babe suggested. “The one where we had coffee this morning.”

“But that’s the morning room.” Fig sounded horrified.

“So is it a crime to go in there after noon?” Wallis Simpson asked with amusement. “Really, I find all these British rules too, too fascinating.”

“I suppose you can use it if you insist upon it,” Fig said. “It’s just that we never do. Not after luncheon.”