II
One of the oddest things in life, as we all know, is the way that when youhave heard a thing mentioned, within twenty-four hours you nearly al-ways come across it again. I had an instance of that the next morning.
My telephone rang and I answered it—
“Flaxman 73841.”
A kind of gasp¹ came through the phone. Then a voice said breathlesslybut defiantly²:
“I’ve thought about it, and I’ll come!”
I cast round wildly in my mind.
“Splendid,” I said, stalling for time. “Er—is that—?”
“After all,” said the voice, “lightning never strikes twice.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the right number?”
“Of course I have. You’re Mark Easterbrook, aren’t you?”
“Got it!” I said. “Mrs. Oliver.”
“Oh,” said the voice, surprised. “Didn’t you know who it was? I neverthought of that. It’s about that fête of Rhoda’s. I’ll come and sign books ifshe wants me to.”
“That’s frightfully nice of you. They’ll put you up, of course.”
“There won’t be parties, will there?” asked Mrs. Oliver apprehensively³.
“You know the kind of thing,” she went on. “People coming up to me andsaying am I writing something just now—when you’d think they could seeI’m drinking ginger⁴ ale or tomato juice and not writing at all. And sayingthey like my books—which of course is pleasing, but I’ve never found theright answer. If you say ‘I’m so glad’ it sounds like ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Akind of stock phrase. Well, it is, of course. And you don’t think they’ll wantme to go out to the Pink Horse and have drinks?”
“The Pink Horse?”
“Well, the Pale Horse. Pubs, I mean. I’m so bad in pubs. I can just drinkbeer at a pinch, but it makes me terribly gurgly.”
“Just what do you mean by the Pale Horse?”
“There’s a pub called that down there, isn’t there? Or perhaps I do meanthe Pink Horse? Or perhaps that’s somewhere else. I may have just ima-gined it. I do imagine quite a lot of things.”
“How’s the Cockatoo getting on?” I asked.

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