They sat for some time in the guard-room before word could be gotten to Jack¹ Berners, who was off the lot. So there was leisure for talk. This consisted of a longish harangue² from Sir Singrim to John, which the latter — modifying its tone if not its words — translated to Pat.

‘My uncle says his brother wanted to do something for you. He thought perhaps if you were a great writer he might invite you to come to his kingdom and write his life.’

‘I never claimed to be —’

‘My uncle says you are an ignominious³ writer — in your own land you permitted him to be touched by those dogs of the policemen.’

‘Aw — bananas,’ muttered Pat uncomfortably.

‘He says my mother always wished you well. But now she is a high and sacred lady and should never see you again. He says we will go to our chambers⁴ in the Ambassador Hotel and meditate⁵ and pray and let you know what we decide.’

When they were released, and the two moguls were escorted apologetically to their car by a studio yes-man, it seemed to Pat that it had been pretty well decided⁶ already. He was angry. For the sake of getting his son a peek⁷ at Miss Granville, he had quite possibly lost his job — though he didn’t really think so. Or rather he was pretty sure that when his week was up he would have lost it anyhow. But though it was a pretty bad break he remembered most clearly from the afternoon that Sir Singrim was ‘the third richest man in India’, and after dinner at a bar on La Cienega he decided to go down to the Ambassador Hotel and find out the result of the prayer and meditation⁸.

It was early dark of a September evening. The Ambassador was full of memories to Pat — the

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