Mallenport and Hester returned on Sunday afternoon. Both were in excellent spirits, Mrs. Mallenport from having seen her beloved H.E. again. Hester from the mile-long queue of partners that had waited to dance with her. James Fitzgerald, the ever-dutiful, or ever- devoted, I didn’t know which, had met them at the airport. He would not stay for tea at the Residence, though Mrs. Mallenport had clearly invited him. He was off, as I could see Hester suspected, to snatch an hour or two with Eve. ‘Such good news of Eve,’ said Mrs. Mallenport, pouring out tea from the trolley on the terrace. ‘The doctors are very pleased with her. The fracture is mending beautifully. She’s out on the balcony every day— getting quite a sun-tan, James tells me.’ Mrs. Mallenport did not tell me if Mr. Fitzgerald had mentioned our unfortunate episode of last night—a frigid affair it had turned out to be. Apart from a few stately perambulations round the floor with officials of the Ministry of Culture, I had had one dance with James Fitzgerald, one with Don Ramon.
