Twenty-three COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE¹

The hotel I was staying in was a poky little place by the station. It served a decent grill² but thatwas all that could be said for it. Except, of course, that it was cheap.
At ten o’clock the following morning I rang the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau and said that Iwanted a shorthand typist to take down some letters and retype a business agreement. My namewas Douglas Weatherby and I was staying at the Clarendon Hotel (extraordinarily tatty³ hotelsalways have grand names). Was Miss Sheila Webb available? A friend of mine had found her veryefficient.
I was in luck. Sheila could come straight away. She had, however, an appointment at twelveo’clock. I said that I would have finished with her well before that as I had an appointment myself.
I was outside the swing doors of the Clarendon when Sheila appeared. I stepped forward.
“Mr. Douglas Weatherby at your service,” I said.
“Was it you rang up?”
“It was.”
“But you can’t do things like that.” She looked scandalized.
“Why not? I’m prepared to pay the Cavendish Bureau for your services. What does it matter tothem if we spend your valuable and expensive time in the Buttercup Café just across the streetinstead of dictating⁴ dull letters beginning ‘Yours of the 3rd prontissimo to hand,’ etc. Come on,let’s go and drink indifferent coffee in peaceful surroundings.”
The Buttercup Café lived up to its name by being violently and aggressively yellow. Formicatabletops, plastic cushions and cups and saucers were all canary colour.
I ordered coffee and scones⁵ for two. It was early enough for us to have the place practically toourselves.
When the waitress had taken the order and gone away, we looked across the table at each other.
“Are you all right, Sheila?”
“What do you mean—am I all right?”
Her eyes had such dark circles under them that they looked violet rather than blue.
“Have you been having a bad time?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know. I thought you had gone away?”
“I had. I’ve come back.”

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