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and here the note of sadness returned – ‘I used to hero-worship Claude. I thought he was a marvellous barrister. And now I know he can’t really do it, can he?’
    She looked at me, hoping, perhaps, for some contradiction. I was afraid I couldn’t oblige. ‘All the same,’ I said, ‘you don’t want him cast into outer darkness and totally deprived of briefs, do you?’
    â€˜Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.’
    â€˜Then, in the fullness of time,’ I told her, ‘I may have a little strategy to suggest.’
    â€˜Hilda,’ I said, having managed to ingest most of a bottle of Château Fleet Street Ordinaire over our cutlets, and with it taken courage, ‘what would you do if I called you fat?’ I awaited the blast of thunder, or at least a drop in the temperature to freezing, to be followed by a week’s eerie silence.
    To my surprise she answered with a brisk ‘I’d call you fatter!’
    â€˜A sensible answer, Hilda.’ I had been brave enough for one evening. ‘You and Mizz Wendy Crump are obviously alike in tolerance and common sense. The only trouble is, she couldn’t say that to Claude because he has a lean and hungry look. Like yon Cassius.’
    â€˜Like yon who? ’
    â€˜No matter.’
    â€˜Rumpole, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
    So I told her the whole story of Wendy and Claude and Mizz Probert, with her Sisterhood, ready to tear poor Erskine-Brown apart as the Bacchantes rent Orestes, and the frightened Ballard. She listened with an occasional click of the tongue and shake of her head, which led me to believe that she didn’t entirely approve. ‘Those girls,’ she said, ‘should be a little less belligerent and learn to use their charm.’
    â€˜Perhaps they haven’t got as much charm as you have, Hilda,’ I flannelled, and she looked at me with deep suspicion.
    â€˜But you say this Wendy Crump doesn’t mind particularly?’
    â€˜She seems not to. Only one thing seems to upset her.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜She’s disillusioned about Claude not because of the fat chat, but because she’s found out he’s not the brilliant advocate she once thought him.’
    â€˜Hero-worship! That’s always dangerous.’
    â€˜I suppose so.’
    â€˜I remember when Dodo and I were at school together, we had an art mistress called Helena Lampos and Dodo absolutely hero-worshipped her. She said Lampos revealed to her the true use of watercolours. Well, then we heard that this Lampos person was going to leave to get married. I can’t think who’d agreed to marry her because she wasn’t much of a catch, at least not in my opinion. Anyway, Dodo was heartbroken and couldn’t bear the idea of being separated from her heroine so, on the morning she was leaving, Lampos could not find the blue silky coat that she was always so proud of.’
    When she starts on her schooldays I feel an irresistible urge to apply the corkscrew to the second bottle of the Ordinaire. I was engaged in this task as Hilda’s story wound to a conclusion. ‘So, anyway, the coat in question was finally found in Dodo’s locker. She thought if she hid it, she’d keep Miss Lampos. Of course, she didn’t. The Lampos left and Dodo had to do a huge impot and miss the staff concert. And, by the way, Rumpole, there’s absolutely no need for you to open another bottle of that stuff. It’s high time you were in bed.’
    At the Temple station next morning I bought a copy of Hello!, a mysterious publication devoted to the happy lives of people I had never heard of. When I arrived in Chambers my first port of call was to the room where Liz Probert carried on her now flourishing practice. She was, as the saying is, at her desk, and I noticed a new scarlet telephone had settled in beside her