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although small, are quite clean and light. My staff consists of Bellinetti and two typists, one male and one female. The male is aged about twenty-two, fair, very self-conscious. His Christian name is Umberto, but so far I have not discovered the surname. Bellinetti
says that he reads too many books. He looks to me as though he needs a square meal. It is possibly only my imagination but I fancy, too, that Bellinetti may be a bit of a bully
.
    The female help is astonishing. Her name is Serafina, and she has two dark pools of mystery where her eyes ought to be, a complexion like semi-transparent wax and clothes that would make your mouth water. Unfortunately she is also very stupid. A protégée of Master Bellinetti’s, I fear. The girl cannot even type. The sight of her blood-red finger-nails twitching uncertainly over the keyboard of her typewriter, I found irritating. Our Serafina must be discussed in the near future. I haven’t really had a chance yet to go very far into the actual business workings of the office. I had a long memorandum from Fitch on the subject. I shall begin the inquest to-morrow. Bellinetti assures me that everything is fine. I hope he’s right
.
    The only extra-office contact I’ve made so far was with an American, whose name I don’t know, but who has an office on the floor below us. He is an odd-looking blighter with a large, pugnacious nose like a prize-fighter’s, brown, curly hair that stands up at an angle of forty-five from his forehead, surprisingly blue eyes, and a pair of shoulders that look all the heftier because he’s slightly shorter than I am. Sorry to be so pernickety about what he looks like, but he impressed me rather. We met on the stairs this morning. He stopped me and asked if I wasn’t English. He explained that it was my clothes that had given him the idea. We made a vague arrangement to have a drink together some time. He says he knew Ferning
.
    If I had known just how much of an impression this “American” was going to make on me in the very near future, I doubt very much whether I should have dismissed him quite so easily from my thoughts. But I was feeling very tired. I decided to finish.
    Well, darling, I’m going to stop this letter-writing now. It’s too long, anyway, and, even though it’s only nine o’clock, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t said any of the things I meant to say and very little of what I’m really thinking—about you and me, I mean. Possibly you can guess all that. I hope so, because, with all this replanting of roots going on, all I seem to be able to get down on paper is something between an inter-departmental memo and a particularly dull book of memoirs. I shall go now and soak myself in a hot bath and then go to bed. Good night, and a sweet sleep to you, darling. Write to me as soon as you can. I keep consoling myself with the thought that you’ll be coming here for your summer vacation, but it’s a terribly long time to wait. Let me know as soon as may be when it will be. Bless you
.
    Nicky
.
    I looked it through. It took up six sides of the hotel note-paper. Far too long and far too plaintive. Still, it was the best I could do under the circumstances and Claire would understand.
    I had stuck down and addressed the envelope when I remembered that I had meant to add a postscript. There were no more envelopes in the rack. Then I did something which I was to remember later. I turned the letter over and wrote the postscript across the back of the envelope.
    P.S.—Do you mind sending me a copy of Engineering each week? We get it here but not until Fitch has finished with it. Love. N
.
    That was that. I would post it in the morning. I yawned and wondered whether to turn the bath on straight away or smoke a final cigarette.
    The question was decided for me. The telephone by the bed rang sharply and the voice of the reception clerk informed me that a signor Vagas was asking to see me.
    My first impulse was to say that I was in