I blame your mother, I'd have said no.'

'You wouldn't - any more than you did to Algy.'

'Well, no, p'raps I wouldn't. But I'd have said yes in a grumblin' manner. Algy Fotheringay's different. No one can keep him away when he decides to pay a visit. He's like a 'flu germ.'

'Well, what about the Peabodys? You invited them, too.'

'Couldn't very well get out of it. Been correspondin' with the feller for donkey's years. When he wrote saying they were coming to England and he'd like an opportunity of examinin' me collection I had no choice. But I didn't want 'em here.'

'You'll thoroughly enjoy having them. You love showing off your guns.'

'Not to Peabody. I know these Americans. He'll keep insistin' how much better his stuff is, and crowing over this new piece he's picked up in Italy. Yankees!'

'I thought he was a Texan.'

'He is. Why?'

'I don't think he'd take very kindly to being called a Yankee.'

'Why not?'

'A Yankee's an American from the northern states. Even you must know Texas is in the south.'

'Oh, I can't be bothered with these fine distinctions. Americans - Yankees - foreigners: they're all the same. I don't mind entertainin', but I like to choose me guests. And I like 'em to be English. But when the party consists of two central Europeans, two Yankees, and the only two Englishmen are some septic civil servant and Algy Fotheringay, it makes a chap feel like emigratin'.'

'Perk up. Jane's coming too, remember? You like her.'

'Course I do. Charming gal. Wish all your chums were as presentable. She doesn't make up for the others, though. I think we're in for a ghastly few days; and you know one of the worst things about it? However gruesome things get, I won't be able to blame your mother. She didn't invite one of 'em.'

'Perhaps she'll meet somebody up in town today and ask them down.'

'If she does, it'll be somebody absolutely charming, who'll be personally responsible for saving the weekend from complete disaster. You mark my words.'

* * *

'Excuse me, but it is Lady Burford, isn't it?'

The Countess of Burford paused in her leisurely examination of Messrs Harrod's furnishing fabrics and surveyed the speaker through her lorgnette. He was a tall, bronzed young man with deep-set blue eyes, and he was smiling at her engagingly.

'It is.' She looked for a few seconds, then her face cleared. 'Of course. You're Lucy Arbuthnot's nephew.'

'My word, you've a good memory.'

'For faces. I can never remember names.'

'Giles Deveraux.'

'Of course. We met at her Yorkshire place about three years ago.'

'That's right.