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cheerfulness. After withdrawing the money he had more than three hundred pounds in his wallet. The possession of actual cash always gave him a sense of well-being which he never had when reading a credit balance on a pass sheet. He had got away from Leathersley House showing a profit, and he was rid for ever of that boring old General. Now that he had left, it seemed to him that he could not have stood it for another week. The feeling of freedom was delightful, the knowledge that he could do exactly what he liked, walk through the West End, have lunch and take as long as he wished over it, go to the cinema, without any need to look at his watch and think that he ought to get back to play billiards or do this, that or the other. Leathersley House had seemed a cushy billet at the time, but in retrospect his duties appeared intolerably onerous.
    And there was another reason for cheerfulness. The Fiona prospect.
    What was the prospect exactly? You were a good-looking young man and a millionaire’s daughter had shown that she was powerfully attracted by you. Putting it crudely, how did you get your hands on some of the cash? The first thing would be to find out whether she had a private income settled on her, enough to maintain them both. If she had, marriage without Papa’s consent would be indicated. If she had only an allowance that might be cut off, then he would have to meet Mallory. He imagined the scene, Mallory saying that he was a fine young Englishman, offering him a job in the organisation, Fiona in ecstasies, marriage in church with half London society there. But this was unhappily not probable, tycoons were notoriously tough and suspicious, his background might be investigated. Look at it another way then. Mallory saying this man’s a fortune hunter, Fiona in tears, I’m going to marry him anyway, Mallory threatening to cut off her allowance – but behind the scenes taking out his cheque book and saying ‘How much?’ What would he settle for? Ten thousand pounds seemed a reasonable amount.
    He rang up the house that evening, asked for Miss Mallory. A man’s voice said, ‘Who is that speaking?’
    ‘Tony Scott-Williams.’
    A pause. Then her voice, rather subdued. ‘Hallo.’
    ‘Fiona. Remember me?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Was that your father?’
    ‘No, the butler.’
    The butler. Certainly some people knew how to live. ‘I want to see you.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Fiona, I have to see you.’
    Her voice, guarded, low, said, ‘I want to see you too. Are you at your uncle’s?’
    ‘In London. Can you come up? This weekend.’
    ‘My father–’
    With what he hoped was powerful urgency he said, ‘I have to see you.’
    There was a pause, so long that he thought the connection had been broken. Then her voice again. ‘All right. I’ll manage somehow. But I can’t come till Saturday.’
    Before she could ask the address of his flat he said quickly, ‘Let’s meet in the Ritz Bar. Can you come up for lunch?’
    ‘Not till the evening. About six.’
    ‘Six o’clock, the Ritz Bar, I’ll be waiting.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Darling, I long for it.’
    ‘I do too. I have to go now.’
    ‘Goodbye, darling.’
    ‘Goodbye.’
    She was well and truly hooked. Play your cards right, he told himself, and you’ve landed the fish.
    He had no friend from whom he could borrow a flat, so he had to rent one. It cost him forty pounds to take a furnished flat for a week. It was high up in a modern block near Marble Arch, a marvellous position, and he regarded the money as an investment. He told the agents that he was staying over in London for only a few days and wanted to do some entertaining that couldn’t be done in a hotel. Whether or not they believed him, they took the eight fivers he gave them and let him move in immediately. He got in a stock of drink – there was a cocktail cabinet, something that he’d always wanted – hung up his clothes and settled down with the feeling that he was there for ever.
    When we’re