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Chloe Fontaine was burdened with aged, tiresome parents 'to whom she was quite wonderful'.
    Isabelle would never have heard of Chloe's parents and so would know nothing of their characters; nevertheless to Isabelle all her geese were swans, and since Chloe had parents, aged parents, apparently poor parents, it must inevitably follow that she was 'wonderful to them'. Jemima thought that Chloe would probably prefer to be spared Isabelle's loyalty on the subject of her parents.
    Isabelle Mancini's private life, or to be more exact, her sexual inclinations, were like those of Valentine Brighton, a subject of occasional amused speculation among her friends. It was generally believed that she had been married, once, long ago, in Paris or possibly Rome, and that Mr Mancini had been abandoned along with residence in these capitals; nowadays she was resolutely Miss Mancini in public.
    What Isabelle patently did admire both in the pages of Taffeta and her own conversation, was the female sex.
    At Taffeta, she patronized women writers, particularly talented women writers who were photogenic, with enthusiasm. Chloe, for example, owed a great deal to Isabelle's encouragement, particularly when her finances were low as in the present instance. So for that matter did Binnie Rapallo, a deliciously pretty photographer who had begun a successful career by celebrating these same writers in Taffeta. Were Isabelle's 'little passions' ever reciprocated? Or did her continuous emphasis on 'loyalty' - 'All my friends are completely loyal to me and of course I'm so loyal to them' - hide an aching heart because 'loyalty' was never equated with love?
    It was Saturday. It was while looking for the telephone directory with Isabelle's home number that Jemima first noticed the piece of bright red paper lying on the carpet near the door. It was square, garish, made of card. Tiger had moved and was crouching near it. For one instant Jemima imagined that he had pushed the card to that position with his paws, had somehow delivered it.
    She picked up the card rather gingerly and turned it over. 'A Splash of Red' was printed in black letters on the other side. Above it the words Aiglon Gallery, directors Crispin Creed, Peter Potter, and below: 'Recent pictures by Kevin John Athlone will be shown at the Aiglon Gallery February 1-28.' It was now August. With relief Jemima realized that she was merely holding an official - and out of date -announcement of an exhibition. It was printed, formal, innocuous. She turned the card over again and saw for the first time that there was a message scrawled along the bottom in bold handwriting: 'Care for a visit?'
    It was by now far too late for any London post. Indeed no letters had arrived that morning; the flat was both too new and too cut-off for that. Letters and circulars, if any, were probably mouldering downstairs in the empty hall with its freshly cut marble floor where a 'grand porter', Chloe had assured her, was shortly to be installed. The thought of this impending porter was not much consolation now, if in the meantime Kevin John Athlone was to be paying her unsolicited visits as and when he wished.
    It struck her that the card must have been delivered while she was in the shadowy bathroom; she could hardly have missed the little red flag on the pale sea of the carpet while she contemplated Tiger's aggressive crouch. The coincidence made her both uncomfortable and angry.
    Jemima would endure no more of this. The Stovers struck some chord in her heart; Kevin John Athlone nothing. Grimly, she went to the door to fling it open and if necessary confront him - only to be checked by the second lock. Jemima remembered too late that she needed a key to get out of the flat as well as into it.
    Tiger sidled forward and gave a little plaintive mew beside her, something more like the cry of a baby in distress than the conventional cry of a cat. She was reminded unpleasantly of the cautionary tale of Harriet who played with