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divine,’ said Rosie. ‘What’s his name?’
    His name was Stanislas—just Stanislas. They had agreed to call him—simply that. No surname, no address; just a telephone number, and ‘Stanislas’. ‘He’s probably a prince or a count or something,’ said Rosie, much impressed. ‘Is he foreign?’
    Melissa, uneasily aware that Stanislas had in all probability been christened plain Stanley, said hurriedly that his accent was perfect (which was not entirely true) so that one couldn’t quite tell. In return for Rosie’s interest, however, she asked kindly what her chap had been like?
    â€˜Which one?’ said Rosie. ‘There were such a lot.’
    â€˜Well, er—the Father of the Child.’
    â€˜My dear, I haven’t a clue,’ said Rosie, astonished that anyone could be so dense. ‘I thought I told you.’
    â€˜You mean all those people were your real—well, I mean your real lovers? And you don’t know which?’
    â€˜No, of course not,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s just what I’ve been saying. And that’s why I can’t sort of get married or anything or do anything about it. There was—well, let’s see, first there was a chap I met in a train and then there was rather a poor one but with a heavenly little flat right up on a hill and that went on for quite a long time, I mean weeks; and then there was a terrifically rich one, only I think I was rather tight at the time, and then there was one with a boat only the boat kept rocking about and I got the giggles, and then—oh, well, I don’t know, simply dozens …’
    â€˜But no princes or counts or anything like that?’ said Melissa, clinging jealously to quality in face of all this incontestable quantity.
    â€˜No, not like your Stanislas. I think he sounds much nicer than any of mine,’ said Rosie, generously; and since her mind ran in simple circles, never inclusive of more than two ideas at once, she added, hopefully: ‘I suppose he wouldn’t know of a nice cheap foreign abortionist?’
    â€˜I don’t think I’d quite like to ask him,’ said Melissa, with no less than the truth.
    And so Rosie had told Matilda and Tedward and Granny and Damien and Melissa. And she couldn’t tell Thomas. And there was nobody else.

CHAPTER THREE
    O N the morning of the following Thursday, a voice rang up and said, ‘Mathilde?’ and Tilda said, ‘My God! No? ’ because only one person in the world would ring up and say, ‘Mathilde?’. And, sure enough, it was Raoul.
    â€˜But Raoul, what on earth are you doing in London?’
    â€˜I flew here yesterday evening, by air. I have some business in Bruxelles and on the way I thought I might also do a little business in London. And I wished to see you, Mathilde, and have some talk with you.’
    â€˜Well, yes, Raoul, how lovely! When could we meet? Any time suits me. ’
    â€˜This morning I have business and then business lunch and in the afternoon more business: this leaves only this evening because to-morrow morning I fly by air to Bruxelles. You come then and dine with me here at the Ritzotel?’
    Matilda, having assured him that any time would suit her, now found that in fact there was no time at all that would. ‘The hell of it is, Raoul, that it’s the girl’s day out and there’s no one to leave in the house. Come to dinner here?’ (My God, though, what on earth could I give the man?)
    â€˜I wish to talk alone with you, Mathilde. Come to my suite here.’
    But Tilda was having no more of that Carouge nonsense! And, anyway, there was the baby and Gran and you could never count on Thomas being in. ‘Hang on for a minute and I’ll see.’ She called down to the basement to know if Melissa could possibly change her day but Melissa had a date with Stanislas and Matilda believed passionately that if