“Not at all, not at all. How pleasant, if duty were always so agreeable. Now if, tomorrow, I should be called out—I don’t anticipate, but at Christmas one must be prepared for anything—I’ll leave the list with my secretary, tell her to hand it to you personally.”

“Your secretary—not the girl who sits on the waste site in fine weather?”

“No, no, dear me, no! That’s Miss Cole, our youngest member of staff—came to us just over a year ago, straight from school. Charming girl, charming. So agile—hockey, you know, lacrosse. Only the other day someone knocked a Chaffers off a shelf—underneath were some pieces of faience brought in from Sotheby’s, a most interesting pair of Strasbourg pigeon tureens. If you had seen Miss Cole move! Lightning, sir, positively lightning! Wonderful save. You frequent Fitch Street?”

Nightingale, who was wondering what a Chaffers might be, collected himself. “I’ve bought records from the shop next to yours,” he said.

Mr. Majendie’s face could not, probably would not, have altered more profoundly if Nightingale had uttered an abrupt obscenity. Nightingale decided to pursue the subject a little.

“I drove along Fitch Street this evening,” he said. “I see from a notice they’ve put up that they’re to extend their premises to that site.” It occurred to him that Majendie’s apparent dislike of the gramophone shop might be prompted by resentment at their having acquired a coveted space. “What used to stand there?”

“You don’t remember Elliman, the florist? No. Poor fellow, never recovered from the blow—the bomb, you know. Lost all heart. Wouldn’t rebuild, wouldn’t claim war damage compensation—but wouldn’t part with the lease. Amazing obstinacy. Died a couple of years ago, and the executors sold, of course. Uneconomic premises for a single business. Small, no egress at the back. We and the gramophone people block the way. What strange anomalies of building and planning exist in great cities. Fascinating. Rather dull, don’t you agree, if everything were regular and symmetrical? London may be a muddle, but it has a heart, a lively beating heart.”

“It certainly has,” said Nightingale, thinking of the turbulent central divisions of the Metropolitan Area.

“You know,” said Mr. Majendie, “had the Princess’s trunk passed into my possession, I could have offered something of considerable interest to our phonographic neighbours. The Princess had two old records—oh, very old. Brought them away with her. She showed them to me. They were her favourites, she said, but as she’s no means of playing them I might as well take them with the rest. Wonderful, and rather touching, that she should have preserved them for so long.”

“Was she interested in music?”