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Miguel,” he said in halting English.
    Micky studied her as she cast her spell over his father. She had changed very little since the day he had kissed her in the chapel at Windfield School. The extra line or two around her eyes only made them more fascinating; the touch of silver in her hair enhanced the blackness of the rest; and if she was a little heavier than she had been it made her body more voluptuous.
    “Micky has often told me of your splendid ranch,” she was saying to Papa.
    Papa lowered his voice. “You must come and visit us one day.”
    God forbid, Micky thought. Augusta in Cordova would be as out of place as a flamingo in a coal mine.
    “Perhaps I shall,” Augusta said. “How far is it?”
    “With the new fast ships, only a month.”
    He still had hold of her hand, Micky noticed. And his voice had gone furry. He had fallen for her already. Micky felt a stab of jealousy. If anyone was going to flirt with Augusta it should be Micky, not Papa.
    “I hear Cordova is a beautiful country,” Augusta said.
    Micky prayed Papa would not do anything embarrassing. However, he could be charming when it suited him, and he was now playing the role of romantic South American grandee for Augusta’s benefit. “I can promise you that we would welcome you like the queen you are,”he said in a low voice; and now it was obvious that he was making up to her.
    But Augusta was a match for him. “What an extraordinarily tempting prospect,” she said with a shameless insincerity that went right over Papa’s head. Withdrawing her hand from his without missing a beat, she looked over his shoulder and cried: “Why, Captain Tillotson, how kind of you to come!” And she turned away to greet the latest arrival.
    Papa was bereft. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Then he said abruptly: “Take me to the head of the bank.”
    “Certainly,” Micky said nervously. He looked around for old Seth. The entire Pilaster clan was here, including maiden aunts, nephews and nieces, in-laws and second cousins. He recognized a couple of members of Parliament and a sprinkling of lesser nobility. Most of the other guests were business connections, Micky judged—and rivals, too, he thought as he saw the thin, upright figure of Ben Greenbourne, head of Greenbournes Bank, said to be the richest man in the world. Ben was the father of Solomon, the boy Micky had always known as Fatty Greenbourne. They had lost touch since school: Fatty had not studied at a university or done a European tour, but had gone straight into his father’s business.
    The aristocracy generally thought it vulgar to talk about money, but this group had no such inhibitions, and Micky kept hearing the word “crash.” In the newspapers it was sometimes spelled “Krach” because it had started in Austria. Share prices were down and the bank rate was up, according to Edward, who had recently started work at the family bank. Some people were alarmed, but the Pilasters felt confident that London would not be pulled down with Vienna.
    Micky took Papa out through the French windows onto the paved terrace, where wooden benches were placed in the shade of striped awnings. There they foundold Seth, sitting with a rug over his knees despite the warm spring weather. He was weak from some unspecified illness, and he looked as frail as an eggshell, but he had the Pilaster nose, a big curved blade that made him formidable still.
    Another guest was gushing over the old man, saying: “What a shame you aren’t well enough to go to the royal levee, Mr. Pilaster!”
    Micky could have told the woman this was the wrong thing to say to a Pilaster.
    “On the contrary, I’m glad of the excuse,” Seth harrumphed. “I don’t see why I should bow the knee to people who have never earned a penny in their lives.”
    “But the Prince of Wales—such an honor!”
    Seth was in no mood to be argued with—indeed he rarely was—and he now said: “Young lady, the name of Pilaster is