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tenants, there were muffled sounds of arrival from upstairs.
    “Someone’s come, oh good. I’ll fly up and see who it is. You make the tea,” and Mrs. Traill tottered away.
    Christine went back to the kitchen and made tea in an old pot of dented Victorian plate which she took from the enormous dresser. The cups and plates displayed there must belong to Mrs Traill, as the first tenant to establish herself; there-were Spanish lustre saucers, grey and blue dishes from Brittany, a sea-blue jug from Bruges, some Japanese cups of eggshell fragility.
    Christine turned each one upside down, curiously examining the marks on their behinds. Mrs. Traill must have Travelled. Then she set them all out on the table; people would be arriving all day, and arrivals always wanted and expected tea.
    She was experiencing a faint excitement. The fear and suspicion of unknown people endemic to her home had never infected her, for she had left the nest each morning for thirty-five years to go to a job where she dealt with strangers all day. You got used to meeting people, in business.
    But these people were different.
    Eighteen, she had been, that first morning at Lloyd and Farmer’s: with her hair—nice hair it was, she had always had a good head of hair—in a shingle, as they called it, and a hat, and gloves, and those pinky silk stockings. 1924. Seemed like another world. But she didn’t feel all that different.
    Voices and footsteps coming down the passage. The kitchen door opened, and Christine looked up.
    “Ah—tea!” exclaimed James Meredith, “and Miss Smith—how nice to see you both.” He laughed, and his wife, who, Christine saw at once, had been upset by something, gave him a resigned look. “These will come in handy, I hope.”
    He put a large carton, crammed with cream buns, on the table, and Diana Meredith sank into a chair, muttering to no one in particular, “Oh good heavens.”
    Christine now saw that someone had followed the Merediths down the passage and was standing in the doorway, surveying the room. Mrs. Traill, who was pouring tea, followed the direction of her glance.
    “Clive! Darling!” she cried. “Come and have some tea … Miss Smith, this is Clive Lennox …”
    “You may have heard of him,” chorused Diana and James, as the actor came forward.
    “Yes, she might just have as a schoolgirl,” he said, taking Christine’s hand and gently pressing it while he gazed into her face. “How sweet of you to come and look after us.”
    “Of course, I have!” Christine said eagerly. “On T.V. …”
    “Oh he doesn’t count that,” cried Diana. “He doesn’t count anything really since Mr.
Melody
, do you, darling?”
    “Well hardly that, dear. It would mean I hadn’t worked for fifteen years … Where’s Antonia? Not here yet?” He sat down, and took a cup of tea.
    “She’s coming tomorrow evening. She’s in the country for a few days. With … for a day or two.” Mrs. Traill fixed an intent gaze on the cream buns.
    “I shall just gulp this and get upstairs. They’ll be putting the heavy stuff in the wrong places. James, I don’t know who you think wants to eat those things at half-past eleven in the morning.”
    Diana drained her cup and turned to Christine. “You can give us lunch today, can’t you? We shall be up to our eyes.”
    “Yes. I’d thought of that. I’ll go out and shop. Would one o’clock be all right?” asked Christine.
    “Perfect.” Diana nodded, adding as if making a concession. “It’s only for today. I expect Fab—Mrs. Traill has told you how we want—how things are to be run, hasn’t she?”
    “Very sketchily. But she understands. We’ll work it out as we go.” Mrs. Traill smiled absently towards Christine. “None of us are fussy about food, really. I mean, we shan’t expect marvellous menus, on the occasions when you are kind enough to do us a meal. But—” she glanced round at the company—“and this goes for all of us—we’d sooner have good