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see them?’
    â€˜Of course I will see them—have I not said so?—because my mother wishes it. And I will describe my journey, and speak of small things. But I will not do what you suggest, and make “a story”.’
    â€˜You’re making a great mistake,’ the American observed, gloomily.
    â€˜Possibly. But I shall make it,’ Hetta said.

Chapter 3
    If the meeting with the Press next morning was not exactly a failure it was mainly owing to the Countess, who herself did a good deal of the talking, and
compèred
her daughter as far as she could, leading her on to describe the expedition to buy those dismal clothes, and so on—it was perhaps just as well really, she reflected, that Hetta hadn’t felt up to going to M. Alfred the previous evening, for her shock-headed-Peter aspect fitted in very well with her ill-fitting ugly dress. Hetta, caught between her desire not to vex her mother, and her distaste for the whole idea as Townsend Waller had revealed it to her, did her best within her self-imposed limits, confining herself as far as possible to dates and generalities. ‘Looks to me as if she’d been brain-washed before she came out, so she’d give nothing away,’ one correspondent muttered to a colleague, going down in the lift.
    â€˜Maybe she’s just born dumb, though she doesn’t altogether look it,’ the colleague responded. ‘Anyway those
clothes
are a story in themselves!’ They both laughed.
    Townsend lunched that day with Atherley in the latter’s small house up in the Lapa quarter of Lisbon, not far from the British Embassy. Richard Atherley disliked flats, and had been delighted to get hold of the little house: it was thoroughly Portuguese, with
azulejos
(coloured tiles) running in a bright cold 3-foot dado round the walls of the narrow hall and the small rooms, and rather sketchy plumbing; the furniture was distinctly sketchy too, except for a big sofa and some comfortable armchairs which the young Englishman, who was by no means poor, had brought out from home. But the house was perched on the lip of what was practically a ravine—although its broad bed was floored with small one-storey houses, their backyards full of rabbits and washing, set in cramped little gardens equally full of onions, fig-trees, and vines trained over trellises, under which the owners cleaned their shoes,ironed their clothes, and ate their meals—and commanded a spectacular view across that end of Lisbon, white-walled and pink-roofed, to the great stretch of the Tagus and the green hills of the Outra Banda, the southern shore. It was very up-and-down, really like a small house in Chelsea except for the tiles and the view—and the food; unless the hostess cooks it, very few houses in Chelsea enjoy food like that which Atherley’s elderly Portuguese servant habitually produced.
    â€˜Well, how did the arrival go?’ Atherley asked at once, over drinks in the little upstairs drawing-room—and Townsend described the scene, and Hetta’s instant and spontaneous refusal to talk. ‘But I went to see her yesterday evening—I knew Dorothée would be at the Belgians.’
    â€˜You never! What did you get out of her? Anything?’
    Townsend’s account of what he had got out of Hetta lasted through most of the meal—towards the end he recounted her unaccountable attitude towards propaganda and publicity. ‘Does that make sense to you?’ he asked.
    â€˜What happened this morning? Did she meet them, or not?’
    â€˜Oh yes, she met them all right; but Perce says you’d have thought it was Dorothée who’d been in Hungary all this time!—she did most of the talking. I think they
just
got by. But can you understand why the girl won’t tell a story like that?’
    â€˜Yes, I think I can,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘But she sounds interesting. I must meet her.’
    â€˜Oh,