She had bobbed, platinum blond hair, done in lots of tight curls, and enormous pale blue eyes, set wide apart. She was wearing a cream cotton suit with peak lapels and patch pockets, and perched slightly to the side of her head was a light green Tyrolean hat, decorated with a pheasant tail. She looked extremely fashionable and very pretty. She was smiling rather tentatively at him.

'How are you, Tommy?'

'Oh, spiffing, really, you know.'

'I saw you through the window. You were looking a bit in the dumps'

'Was I? Well, suppose I am, really.'

'Oh?' She stared at him sympathetically. 'Something wrong?'

'Nothing more than usual. It's just that I think that Lagonda might be exactly the car you're looking for, madam. Let me show it to you.' He ushered her towards a scarlet two-seater Tourer.

Penelope Saunders looked somewhat bewildered. 'I'm sorry, Tommy, I didn't really come in to buy a car.'

'I know, but the Lord High Sales Manager was approaching. Got to pretend you're a customer.' He stopped by the Lagonda. 'Look at the car, not me.'

'Oh, right. I thought I'd just pop in and see how you were getting on at the new job. Sort of cousinly interest.'

'Jolly decent of you. That is the trouble, really. I'm not much good at it. I've only sold three cars in four weeks.'

'Is that bad?'

'Well, they don't expect you to be a super salesman in a month, but I am starting to get some rather old-fashioned looks.'

'Oh, I am sorry. I was hoping this time you might have found something that really suited you. I mean, you've always been keen on cars, haven't you?'

'Keen on driving them, not selling them.'

Penny was staring intently at the sleek lines of the Lagonda. 'It is awfully pretty, isn't it? I wish I could buy it.'

'It's not all that expensive,' Tommy said hopefully.

'It is for me. Daddy keeps me most horribly hard up. My allowance is positively laughable. Only I don't laugh. You'd think he'd want me to have a good time. But no. And it's always 'don't do this, don't do that.' He doesn't like me smoking in public. He won't even let me paint my toenails. And he thinks night clubs are dens of iniquity. He's like one of those Victorian fathers you read about.'

'Well, I suppose he is, really, isn't he? Victorian, I mean. How old is he?'

'Forty-six.'

'Well, there you are. He was born in the nineteenth century, so he is Victorian.'

'But he doesn't have to behave like it.