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Mrs. Pumphrey introduced me and I squirmed in embarrassment as I heard myself described as “Tricki’s dear kind uncle.” But either they were people of superb self-control or they were familiar with their hostess’s blind spot because the information was received with complete gravity.
    Along one wall a five-piece orchestra was tuning up; white-jacketed waiters hurried among the guests with trays of food and drinks. Mrs. Pumphrey stopped one of the waiters. “Fran@cois, some champagne for this gentleman.”
    “Yes, Madame.” The waiter proffered his tray.
    “No, no, no, not those. One of the big glasses.”
    Fran@cois hurried away and returned with something like a soup plate with a stem. It was brimming with champagne.
    “Fran@cois.”
    “Yes, Madame?”
    “This is Mr. Herriot. I want you to take a good look at him.”
    The waiter turned a pair of sad spaniel eyes on me and drank me in for a few moments.
    “I want you to look after him. See that his glass is full and that he has plenty to eat.”
    “Certainly, Madame.” He bowed and moved away.
    I buried my face in the ice-cold champagne and when I looked up, there was Fran@cois holding out a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches.
    It was like that all the evening. Fran@cois seemed always to be at my elbow, filling up the enormous glass or pushing dainties at me. I found it delightful; the salty snacks brought on a thirst which I quenched with deep drafts of champagne, then I had more snacks which made me thirsty again and Fran@cois would unfailingly pop up with the magnum.
    It was the first time I had had the opportunity of drinking champagne by the pint and it was a rewarding experience. I was quickly aware of a glorious lightness, a heightening of the perceptions. I stopped being overawed by this new world and began to enjoy it. I danced with everybody in sight-sleek young beauties, elderly dowagers and twice with a giggling Mrs. Pumphrey.
    Or I just talked. And it was witty talk; I repeatedly amazed myself by my lightning shafts. Once I caught sight of myself in a mirror—a distinguished figure, glass in hand, the hired suit hanging on me with quiet grace. It took my breath away.
    Eating, drinking, talking, dancing, the evening winged past. When it was time to go and I had my coat on and was shaking hands with Mrs. Pumphrey in the hall, Fran@cois appeared again with a bowl of hot soup. He seemed to be worried lest I grow faint on the journey home.
    After the soup, Mrs. Pumphrey said, “And now you must come and say good-night to Tricki. He’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” We went into his room and the little dog yawned from the depths of the chair and wagged his tail. Mrs. Pumphrey put her hand on my sleeve. “While you’re here, I wonder if you would be so kind as to examine his claws. I’ve been so worried in case they might be growing too long.”
    I lifted up the paws one by one and scrutinized the claws while Tricki lazily licked my hands. “No, you needn’t worry, they’re perfectly all right.”
    “Thank you so much, I’m so grateful to you. Now you must wash your hands.”
    In the familiar bathroom with the sea-green basins and the enameled fishes on the walls and the dressing table and the bottles on the glass shelves, I looked around as the steaming water ran from the tap. There was my own towel by the basin and the usual new slab of soap—soap that lathered in an instant and gave off an expensive scent. It was the final touch of balm on a gracious evening. It had been a few hours of luxury and light and I carried the memory back with me to Skeldale House.
    I got into bed, switched off the light and lay on my back looking up into the darkness. Snatches of music still tinkled about in my head and I was beginning to swim back to the ballroom when the phone rang.
    “This is Atkinson of Beck Cottage,” a faraway voice said. “I ‘ave a sow ‘ere what can’t get pigged. She’s been on all night. Will you come?”
    I looked at the