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course our receptionist is miles away at this hour of the night. So you’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’
    Ophelia drew a breath, sounding like an annoyed asp. ‘I’m not at all certain, Dr Grimsdyke, that I entirely like the tone of that remark.’
    ‘Pure routine, of course,’ I added quickly. Ophelia was a delightfully high-spirited girl, but she did have a rather hair-trigger temper and I didn’t want to risk getting the sphygmomanometer chucked at me.
    ‘It’s just that – well, otherwise we’d be committing the most frightful professional misconduct,’ I pointed out.
    ‘Are you suggesting, Dr Grimsdyke, that I have nothing better to do with my evenings than going round London compromising ham-fisted young medicos–’
    ‘Nothing personal, I assure you–’
    ‘Are you going to examine me or aren’t you? Not only must I have my certificate first thing tomorrow morning, but it’s freezing cold behind here. If this is the way you treat all your patients, I can only say you must be quite a specialist in pneumonia.’
    I went behind the screen.
    A couple of minutes later found me at the Chippendale consulting desk, writing a note on Razzy’s paper to the Capricorn Shipping Company of Leadenhall Street, saying I had that day examined Miss Ophelia O’Brien (21), and in my opinion she was suffering from no disabilities, physical or mental.
    ‘That was pretty short and sweet, I must say.’ Ophelia’s voice seemed to have cheered up a good deal. ‘Was my chest all right?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Dear Gaston!’ She appeared round the screen. ‘Are you always so stern and severe with your female patients?’
    ‘One has one’s bedside manner,’ I murmured. I felt it high time for a little professional dignity.
    She laughed. ‘Be an angel and do up my bra for me. The catch has gone.’
    ‘Ophelia–’ I began, obliging.
    ‘Yes, darling?’
    ‘Ophelia, old girl–’
    What with the surprise of seeing her and the general confusion, I’d just realised the shocking blow about to fall on the Grimsdyke psychology.
    ‘Why have you got to sail out of my life, just when we were getting along so jolly well together?’ I demanded.
    ‘But it’s only for three weeks, darling. Anyone would think I was a sort of female Christopher Columbus, or something.’
    ‘But in three weeks Basil will be back in Town!’
    ‘Oh, yes. So he will.’
    I shot her a glance as she reached for her stockings. If Ophelia didn’t always take me seriously, it struck me she sometimes didn’t take Basil with the gravity of the girl committed to darning his tights for the rest of her life.
    ‘Don’t you think it would be rather fun if we got married?’ I mentioned.
    ‘ Please , Gaston, not again.’ She fiddled with her suspenders. ‘I thought we settled that old business the other night?’
    That had been in a night-club, and you can’t imagine how difficult it is convincing a girl your heart bleeds for her with everyone blowing squeakers and popping balloons all round you.
    ‘Basil’s a sterling chap, of course,’ I conceded. ‘Probably make a very good husband for someone one day. And admittedly the Grimsdyke prospects themselves aren’t particularly bright. But,’ I pointed out, ‘if you married me instead, at least you’d get quicker delivery.’
    Another thought struck me, as I noticed the coloured shipping brochure that had slipped from her handbag.
    ‘You won’t just forget poor old Uncle Grimsdyke, will you?’ I asked, rather plaintive. ‘Not on those romantic evenings in the tropical moonlight? Not when you’re being waltzed round the deck by coves in white dinner jackets? Look, there’s a picture of them here–’
    ‘Surely a big grown man like you doesn’t still believe in adverts?’ Ophelia kissed me lightly on the left ear.
    ‘No, but–’
    ‘Besides, it’s probably the monsoon season in South America, anyway, with all the nights pitch black and everyone being seasick.’
    She wiggled