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she closed her mouth in embarrassment, already feeling a fool and wishing she could run far away. He was leaning back in his chair and watching her closely, making her fidget uneasily under his stare.
    Finally he said, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, but as it stands, I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be suitable for the vacancy as advertised.’
    What had she expected? This was only the first job she’d gone for and maybe she should concentrate on war work after all and do her bit. All she wanted now was to get out of this place. Nor was she comfortable with the way he was regarding her. Almost as if she was being flirted with, but she said nothing.
    He had brought his hands together, the tips of his fingers to his lips as if studying her. There was a sparkle in his eye.
    â€˜However, if I may I’d like to set you a little task – with your consent, of course.’
    There followed a long drawn out pause while she wondered what she would be asked to do, all the while feeling herself to be under a sort of microscope, making her feel deeply uncomfortable. He hadn’t said test, he had said task. What on earth did he have in mind? She was about to ask when he spoke again.
    â€˜This may sound a little odd, Miss Lovell …’ He gave a brief, self-conscious laugh before continuing. ‘Would it sound too preposterous if I were to ask you if you could do a small sketch of one of my colleagues for me? Would you be able to do that? I’ve just had a sudden idea, you see.’
    Bewildered, she found herself nodding in agreement, not quite understanding why. She was beginning to feel even more uncertain. Had he been elderly or imperious, she’d have walked out, but as he was youngish – she judged in his late twenties – not at all high-handed and being so nice, maybe he had something in mind for her that might get her a job here after all.
    â€˜Our Mr Jonathan Turnbull,’ he said, ‘sits in the next office. What I’d like to ask you to do, if you don’t mind, is sketch our Mr Turnbull’s likeness as near as you can manage. Would you do that for me? Please.’
    Again she nodded. She found herself suddenly eager to show him that she was more skilled than he seemed to imply, and he could laugh his head off once she’d left this office.
    â€˜Well, if you will excuse me just one moment,’ Mr Clayton said, getting up from his chair and walking out of the office, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
    She could not help but wonder why a man of his age should still not be in uniform when men were out there fighting for their lives and the honour of their country.
    Minutes later he returned with Mr Turnbull, a rather plump, middle-aged man who, smiling awkwardly, sat down on a chair on one side of the room. Mr Clayton laid several pencils and a rubber on the desk where Connie was sitting, together with three or four sheets of high quality cartridge paper. It was then he saw the look on her face.
    â€˜Please, Miss Lovell, I’m being very serious about this. When you have finished drawing our friend here, I’ll explain. This isn’t a joke. If you wish I’ll leave the room?’
    Connie merely shrugged, determined to prove her talent as an artist even if not as a filing clerk. But she didn’t want him looking over her shoulder. To her relief, he walked off, leaving her alone with her chubby sitter, who smiled awkwardly at her and said, ‘Sorry about this, miss, but he doesn’t do anything without reason.’
    Feeling more at ease and with a sudden surge of excitement, Connie took up one of the pencils and, studying the man’s podgy face, became lost in a world that she had always enjoyed.
    The man was decidedly embarrassed and it showed in his eyes. Connie always thought that the eyes made a person, brought them to life, bared their soul as no other part of the face could. And as Connie observed Mr Turnbull she could see