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made her give a light scream until she realized it was Tiger, returning from some nocturnal prowl. The ghost of the dead Colette, who had so often glided into her flat at night through the cat flap, a small unmistakeable sound, called to her. But she had not come here to listen to the mew of Colette's ghost.
    Resolutely Jemima gave herself up to concentrate on Nadine Gordimer. She was immediately carried into another far-off and sombre world. When she next squinted at the elegant little gold bracelet watch she always wore, it was 11.30.
    Time to sleep and be fresh for the Reading Room of the British Library tomorrow. The intoxication of having disappeared in London overwhelmed Jemima with childish delight. She would read - or perhaps she would not read - in bed. She would read, but she would abandon Nadine Gordimer for the night and read John Le Carre; she had spotted one by Chloe's bed. It was a great help that Jemima had read this Le Carre before, and would thus, in her sleepy state, have a head start with the plot. It was, in its own way, delightful that she was not in her own luxurious but somehow demanding bed at home, with all its little pleasures and appurtenances about it, books, photographs, articles to read, paraphernalia. Last thing, she put the telephone back on the hook in the sitting room.
    Afterwards she was not quite sure whether she had actually fallen asleep or not over Le Carre (it was in fact no help to her that she had read it before; the plot remained dazzling but impenetrable) when she was startled by the plaintive peep-peep of the little telephone by the bed.
    'Dollie?' It was a woman's voice, anxious and quite elderly. 'Dollie? Is that you, dear?'
    'I'm afraid that you have the wrong number,' began Jemima. 'There's no Dollie here.'
    'Is that 6368471?' quavered the voice. Jemima glanced at the dial.
    'Yes, but this is a new flat: the number must have been reallocated.'
    Jemima had just said again: 'There's no Dollie here', when she suddenly remembered, feeling rather remorseful, that Chloe Fontaine's mother always called her Dollie. Jemima, having been at Cambridge with Chloe, was dimly aware of this fact. As far as she could remember Chloe, formerly Dorothy or Dollie, had changed her name on arrival at Cambridge but, as she occasionally complained, had never succeeded in getting her somewhat elderly mother to acknowledge the fact.
    'I see, dear. I'll just go on calling you Dollie, if you don't mind,' was the most her mother could be persuaded to comment.
    'Is that you, Mrs Fontaine?' said Jemima hastily. 'I'm afraid Chloe's gone away.' She did not feel like entering the Dollie charade herself; considering Chloe's ancient annoyance at her mother's obstinacy, it seemed somewhat disloyal to her friend. Chloe had after all lived as long under her new name as her old, and had written a great many books under it (for which reason she had never adopted either of her two married names).
    'I'm her friend, Jemima Shore,' she threw in. 'You may remember: we met once at Cambridge. I'm borrowing her flat while she's on holiday.'
    There was a moment's silence. Jemima had a picture of an old person at the other end of the telephone, grappling with unexpected information. And Mrs Fontaine, having, as far as she could remember, borne Chloe when she was something like forty, must be in her seventies by now.
    'Not Mrs Fontaine, dear. Mrs Stover,' said the voice at last. It was less plaintive, much firmer. Further Cambridge memories came back to Jemima. The trouble with Chloe's change of name was that she had changed both her Christian name and her surname on arrival at university. Fontaine was the name of her real father who had been killed early in the war, and Stover the name of her stepfather who had adopted her. Presumably the reversion represented some kind of protest; at this distance Jemima hardly remembered. Where 'Chloe' came from, Jemima had absolutely no idea; it was an unlikely middle name for Dorothy Stover.