is supposed to have initiative always turns out to have some capital as well? And, it’s much easier to develop integrity if you’ve got something to lose . . .’
‘What about the girl?’
‘Eh?’ He looked at her. ‘Oh, she’ll love me all right, don’t worry.’
‘But supposing you don’t –’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ he said, almost irritably. ‘Rich girls are used to a pretty low standard of marriage. She’ll adore me, and I’ll be considerate
and nice to her, and she’ll be thankful I don’t turn out to be an utter swine. That’s what they usually marry – a swine in a sheepskin car coat who takes her out in a
borrowed E-type.’
She said nothing. She was shocked and hoped he was joking.
Annabel’s agency was above a greengrocer in Walton Street. It took her nearly a week to find this out because whenever she rang up Annabel, a woman who sounded as though
she had been born in Knightsbridge on a horse said that Annabel was out and she had simply no id eah when she would be in. She laughed a lot after she said this, which was very loudly, and
Elizabeth found it tremendously difficult simply to say ‘Goodbye’ to somebody who was in the middle of laughing like that, and not frightfully easy even just after they had stopped. So
she didn’t ring up much, and the curious days and nights with Oliver went by; but in the end Annabel was in, and she got the agency’s address, put on her tidiest clothes and went
to see them.
It was run by two ladies called Lady Dione Havergal-Smythe and Mrs Potts. Both seemed rather surprising people to find running an agency: Lady Dione looked about fifteen – even in dark
glasses – and Mrs Potts, who was the perfectly ordinary age of about fifty – old, anyway – turned out to be Hungarian. The agency consisted of two small rooms: one in which
customers or clients waited to see Lady Dione and Mrs Potts and one where they saw them. There were two telephones which rang very nearly as often as they could, so that any sustained conversation
was difficult. In between two calls Elizabeth was invited to sit down which she started to do, until she realized, perilously near the point of no return, that the chair indicated was minutely
occupied by a Yorkshire terrier.
‘Put her on the floor, would you very kindly?’ Lady Dione’s voice was unexpectedly deep and authoritative, and Elizabeth felt that the kindness referred to the dog rather than
to herself.
Mrs Potts was talking fluent Italian (Elizabeth, who didn’t know her nationality at this point, thought that she must be Italian as the peevishly caressing inflections continued).
Lady Dione’s telephone rang again – she listened for about half a minute and then said, ‘Good God! No.’
‘And what can we do for you ?’ she asked, as though she was quite ready to repeat her earlier remark after Elizabeth had told her.
‘I’ve come about a job. Annabel Peeling told me that you had them. Jobs, I mean.’
‘Oh! People nearly always come to us wanting people to do jobs.’ Lady Dione seized a very expensive-looking leather address book.
‘Do give me your name. And address. And things like that.’
Elizabeth did this.
Lady Dione pushed her dark glasses on to the top of her head and said earnestly, ‘What would you like to do? I mean – somebody wants almost anything.’ Her eyes were like
Siberian topazes, Elizabeth thought: her only piece of jewellery was them so she jolly well knew what they looked like. Knowing that was a bit like Oliver, she thought: but she had to be left a
brooch to know anything, and that was the only thing she’d ever been left, so that showed you . . .
‘I can cook a bit,’ she said.
‘Gosh! Can you really? I mean not just sole Véronique and chocolate mousse?’
Elizabeth shook her head.
‘Hetty! (Mrs Potts, she’s Hungarian.) Miss –’ (she consulted her book) ‘Seymour can cook!’
Mrs Potts had stopped having her Italian conversation, and
‘What about the girl?’
‘Eh?’ He looked at her. ‘Oh, she’ll love me all right, don’t worry.’
‘But supposing you don’t –’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ he said, almost irritably. ‘Rich girls are used to a pretty low standard of marriage. She’ll adore me, and I’ll be considerate
and nice to her, and she’ll be thankful I don’t turn out to be an utter swine. That’s what they usually marry – a swine in a sheepskin car coat who takes her out in a
borrowed E-type.’
She said nothing. She was shocked and hoped he was joking.
Annabel’s agency was above a greengrocer in Walton Street. It took her nearly a week to find this out because whenever she rang up Annabel, a woman who sounded as though
she had been born in Knightsbridge on a horse said that Annabel was out and she had simply no id eah when she would be in. She laughed a lot after she said this, which was very loudly, and
Elizabeth found it tremendously difficult simply to say ‘Goodbye’ to somebody who was in the middle of laughing like that, and not frightfully easy even just after they had stopped. So
she didn’t ring up much, and the curious days and nights with Oliver went by; but in the end Annabel was in, and she got the agency’s address, put on her tidiest clothes and went
to see them.
It was run by two ladies called Lady Dione Havergal-Smythe and Mrs Potts. Both seemed rather surprising people to find running an agency: Lady Dione looked about fifteen – even in dark
glasses – and Mrs Potts, who was the perfectly ordinary age of about fifty – old, anyway – turned out to be Hungarian. The agency consisted of two small rooms: one in which
customers or clients waited to see Lady Dione and Mrs Potts and one where they saw them. There were two telephones which rang very nearly as often as they could, so that any sustained conversation
was difficult. In between two calls Elizabeth was invited to sit down which she started to do, until she realized, perilously near the point of no return, that the chair indicated was minutely
occupied by a Yorkshire terrier.
‘Put her on the floor, would you very kindly?’ Lady Dione’s voice was unexpectedly deep and authoritative, and Elizabeth felt that the kindness referred to the dog rather than
to herself.
Mrs Potts was talking fluent Italian (Elizabeth, who didn’t know her nationality at this point, thought that she must be Italian as the peevishly caressing inflections continued).
Lady Dione’s telephone rang again – she listened for about half a minute and then said, ‘Good God! No.’
‘And what can we do for you ?’ she asked, as though she was quite ready to repeat her earlier remark after Elizabeth had told her.
‘I’ve come about a job. Annabel Peeling told me that you had them. Jobs, I mean.’
‘Oh! People nearly always come to us wanting people to do jobs.’ Lady Dione seized a very expensive-looking leather address book.
‘Do give me your name. And address. And things like that.’
Elizabeth did this.
Lady Dione pushed her dark glasses on to the top of her head and said earnestly, ‘What would you like to do? I mean – somebody wants almost anything.’ Her eyes were like
Siberian topazes, Elizabeth thought: her only piece of jewellery was them so she jolly well knew what they looked like. Knowing that was a bit like Oliver, she thought: but she had to be left a
brooch to know anything, and that was the only thing she’d ever been left, so that showed you . . .
‘I can cook a bit,’ she said.
‘Gosh! Can you really? I mean not just sole Véronique and chocolate mousse?’
Elizabeth shook her head.
‘Hetty! (Mrs Potts, she’s Hungarian.) Miss –’ (she consulted her book) ‘Seymour can cook!’
Mrs Potts had stopped having her Italian conversation, and
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