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then a breathless tinkly voice, like a musical box, came on the line.
    â€˜Mister Dewrell, is that yew?’ it asked. ‘This is Magnolia Dwite-Henderson speaking to yew.’
    â€˜I’m delighted to have this chance to talk to you, Mrs Dwite-Henderson,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh mercy me,’ she shrilled, ‘your ac-cent, your AC-cent — it’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just like talking to Sir Laurence Olivier. I do declare it sends shivers up mah spine.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. ‘I have just heard from the Guild that they have more or less forced you to put me up. Now, I do think this is a great imposition and I would much rather stay in an hotel and not inconvenience you in this way.’
    â€˜Inconvenience me?’ she squeaked. ‘Why, honey lamb, it’s an honour to have yew in the house. I wouldn’t let yew stay in a hotel where they never sweep under the beds or empty the ashtrays. It would be going against the grain of true Southern hospitality. I wouldn’t even let a Yankee stay in a hotel if he was coming to lecture — not that they have much to lecture about. They are all wind and water as my father used to say, only he used a stronger word.’
    My heart sank. I could see that no way was I going to get out of staying with Mrs Dwite-Henderson without offending Southern hospitality.
    â€˜You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘My plane gets in at half past four so I should be with you by five.’
    â€˜Wonderful!’ she said. ‘Yew’ll be just in time for my special tea — every Thursday I have five of my dearest friends to tea and, of course, they are simply on tenterhooks to meet yew.’
    With an effort I suppressed a groan.
    â€˜Well, I’ll see you at five then,’ I said.
    â€˜I cain’t wait till yew get hayer,’ she said.
    I put down the phone and went to catch my plane with some misgivings. Two hours later I was in the deep South, the land of cotton, black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes and — unfortunately — Elvis Presley. I was propelled from the airport in a taxi driven by a very large man smoking a large cigar roughly the colour of his skin.
    â€˜Yew from Boston?’ he enquired, after we had travelled some way.
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘why would you think that?’
    â€˜Axe-cent,’ he said succinctly, ‘your axe-cent.’
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘I’m from England.’
    â€˜Dat right?’ he said. ‘England, eh?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said.
    â€˜How’s de Queen doing?’ he asked.
    â€˜I think she’s doing real fine,’ I said, endeavouring to enter into the spirit of the deep South.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said reflectively, ‘she’s some woman, dat Queen — she’s got a lot of balls ah reckon.’
    I remained silent. As a commentary on the royal family, I felt his remark said it all.
    The residence of Mrs Magnolia Dwite-Henderson was a sort of dwarfed old style colonial mansion set in two acres of carefully manicured garden, with white colonnades standing shoulder to shoulder with vast quantities of purple azaleas. The front door, which must have measured twelve feet by four, had an enormous brass knocker that was so polished it gleamed as if it were on fire. As the taxi drew up this handsome door was thrown open to frame a very large, very black gentleman with white hair in tail coat and striped trousers. He looked as though he might be the accredited Ambassador of practically any emerging nation. In the rich port-like tones that I remembered from the telephone he said, ‘Mr Dewrell, welcome to Miz Magnolia’s residence,’ and then added as an afterthought, ‘Ahyam Fred.’
    â€˜Glad to know you, Fred,’ I said. ‘Can you handle the luggage?’
    â€˜Everything will be under control,’ said Fred.
    The taxi driver had deposited my two suitcases