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long skirt and a loose smock blouse of a kind I’d have expected to see more along the King’s Road than at a Residence At Home. My heart warmed to her.
    ‘You’re spending too long, Morag,’ Alex Ashford eyed her fondly, ‘with those lying, thieving, romancing little brats of yours. You’re getting to exaggerate like the Charaguayans.’ And turning to me, ‘Morag runs a hostel for the shoeshine boys.’
    I nodded. ‘So I’ve heard. The second steward on our aircraft today used to be one.’
    Morag looked pleased. ‘Did he manage to talk with you? These lads don’t have much English.’
    ‘No, I was told it by another passenger—a man who sat beside me. A Charaguayan.’
    ‘Gould he by any chance have been tall, dark and disgracefully handsome?’ She winked at Ashford Aid, who looked straight ahead, puffing contentedly at his pipe.
    I smiled and nodded.
    ‘Was he also charming, flattering and high-handed?’
    ‘He was charming and flattering,’ I said. ‘And no more high-handed,’ I thought bitterly of Mr. Fitzgerald, ‘than some other men.’
    ‘But in a word, he was Don Ramon de Carradedas?'
    I nodded. I told them of the circumstances of our meeting. But I omitted, because it was still raw, my new boss’s reaction to that meeting.
    ‘I’d heard that Don Ramón was returning,’ Morag said slowly.
    ‘Has he been away long?’ I asked.
    ‘Just a few weeks. He was supposed to have had an unhappy love affair . . .'
    ‘Gossip, Morag, pure gossip!' Ashford Aid took his pipe out of his mouth.
    ‘It would seem he’s recovered, and is looking around for new distractions.’
    Mr. Ashford clicked his tongue reprovingly, ‘Morag, Morag! Don’t tell me that what Don Ramón is up to has taken precedence over your latest mystery?’
    Morag laughed and shook her curly head. She winked at me again.
    ‘What mystery?’ I asked her.
    ‘The latest triangle.' She smiled. ‘And speak of the devil, they’ve finished their game.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Hester and James Fitzgerald.’ Morag stood up to her full five feet nothing and shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘They’ve won again. That was the final. Good for them! Gould it be,’ she rested her hand on Mr. Ashford’s shoulder, ‘an omen?’
    ‘Morag,’ Mr. Ashford said, turning to me as if acting as an interpreter, ‘is very curious to know who will win another sort of game. You girls are always very inquisitive and romantic. But out here in Charaguay, trebly so.’
    ‘What game?’
    ‘The love game,' Morag answered, sitting down and spreading her voluminous skirt around her. ‘Hester’s had a good rally, but I fear she’s going to lose the next set.' She jerked her curly head towards three figures on the other side of the lawn. James Fitzgerald was walking over to Mrs. Mallenport, manifestly about to take his leave. Hester was lagging behind, digging her racquet into the smooth turf, her whole posture rebelliously angry.
    ‘He’s going back, I bet you. To the Clinic,' Morag said. ‘To hold Eve’s wee hand.'
    ‘Very laudable of him,' said Mr. Ashford. ‘No fun for Eve being laid up for weeks on end. He’s been most conscientious.’
    ‘It’s not that at all,' Morag laughed. ‘He’s always popping in to see her. Our hostel’s just by the Clinic. I’ve seen him often. He’s in love with Eve, and Hester makes it only too clear that she’s in love with him. I’m just curious to see who wins.’
     
    When the last of the tennis guests had gone home, Mrs. Mallenport packed me, not unwillingly, off to an early bed.
    ‘You’ll be tired after your journey,' she said. ‘You’ll have a number of late nights while you’re here. The Charaguayans are great night birds. I should rest while you can. Chico will bring you up supper on a tray.’ So I retired to my little room to bath and unpack. Darkness had descended with a swiftness I had never before witnessed. A great unclouded moon shone just past its full. It hung just above the feathery