“What a shame. It would have given me something useful to do, ringing the florist again. I’m sending Natalie Winter an azalea this time, in a large pot. The last show of mine that she was in I sent her a bunch of some quite unlikely big flowers, orange they were, and she arrived at the party afterwards with at least half of them pinned on her dress. Her dress was cerise silk. At least she can’t pin on an azalea. I’d better send Mrs. Von Blerke a wreath. Do you think Interflora deliver to Boston?”

“Wyndham, I’ve got to go.”

“What for?”

“Lunch.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll be seeing you. Have a nice lunch. Thanks for ringing.”

Flora did not want to leave the telephone directory: she was busy tearing out pages. All the way back to the house she yelled, “Book, book,” and I was glad that she could say no more. When I got back David said:

“Where have you been?” and I said that I had been to the post.

“Book,” said Flora.

“She means letter,” I said as I tied her bib on and sat her down at the table. “She wanted to put the letter in the box, and I put it in without thinking, so now she’s cross.”

“She’s always cross,” said David, and started to play this little piggy with her fingers. She was overcome with delight, she thinks David is the most amusing person in the world.

In the afternoon David went out to rehearse curtain calls, and I sat and thought about Mrs. Von Blerke and death by water and played with Flora and wondered how to wear my hair for the evening. At five Mike Papini arrived, full of indignation about the train journey.

“They told me it was just by Oxford,” he said miserably, as we drank our tea. “I’ll never get back again. Lucky you asked me to stay the night. What a place to get to. What do they mean by opening a theatre here?”