What made him sick, of course, was not the box of candy.

He was sick of an emotion that was old before candy was invented.

As he poured brandy for Searle, the vicar and himself to drink with their coffee he looked round in his mind for comfort, and found it.

Searle might give her boxes of expensive sweetmeats, but it was he, Walter, who knew what her favourite sweets were.

Or-did Searle know that too? Perhaps the Crome confectioner didn't happen to have dragees.

He tilted the brandy bottle again. He needed an extra spot tonight.

If Emma Garrowby could ever be said to be glad of any connection of Leslie Searle with Trimmings, she was glad of the plan for the book. It would take him away from the household for the rest of his stay in Orfordshire; and once the Rushmere trip was over he would go away and they would see no more of him. No harm had been done so far, that she could see. Liz liked being with the creature, of course, because they were both young and because they seemed to laugh at the same things and because, naturally, he was attractive to look at. But she showed no signs of being seriously attracted. She never looked at Searle unless she had something to say to him; never followed him with her eyes as girls in love did, never sat near him in a room.

For all her apprehensiveness, Emma Garrowby was an imperceptive woman.

It was the semi-detached Lavinia, oddly enough, who observed and was troubled. The trouble welled up and overflowed into words, almost against her will, some seven days later. She was dictating as usual to Liz, but was making heavy weather of it. This was so rare that Liz was puzzled. Lavinia wrote her books with great ease, being genuinely interested in the fate of her current heroine. She might not remember afterwards whether it was Daphne or Valerie who had met her lover when she was gathering violets in the dawn on Capri, but while Daphne (or Valerie) had been in the process of that meeting and that gathering Lavinia Fitch watched over her like a godmother. Now, contrary to all precedent, she was distrait and had great difficulty in remembering even what Sylvia looked like.

'Where was I, Liz, where was I? she said, striding up and down the room; a pencil stuck through the bird's-nest mop of sandy hair and another being chewed to pulp between her sharp little teeth.

'Sylvia is coming in from the garden. Through the French window.

'Oh, yes. "Sylvia paused in the window, her slim form outlined against the light, her large blue eyes wary and doubtful — "

'Brown, said Liz.

'What?

'Her eyes. Liz flipped back some pages of the script. 'Page 59. "Her brown eyes, limpid as rainpools lying on autumn leaves — "

'All right, all right. "-her large brown eyes wary and doubtful. With a graceful movement of resolution she stepped into the room, her tiny heels tapping lightly on the parquet floor — "

'No heels.

'What d'you say?

'No heels.

'Why not?

'She has just been playing tennis.

'She could have changed, couldn't she? Lavinia said with a touch of asperity that was foreign to her.

'I don't think so, Liz said patiently. 'She is still carrying her racket. She came along the terrace "swinging her racket lightly".

'Oh. Did she! Lavinia said explosively. 'I bet she can't even play! Where was I? "She stepped into the room-she stepped into the room, her white frock fluttering"-no; no, wait-"she stepped into the room"-Oh, damn Sylvia! she burst out, flinging her chewed pencil on to the desk. 'Who cares what the silly moron does! Let her stay in the blasted window and starve!

'What is the matter, Aunt Vin?

'I can't concentrate.

'Are you worried about something?

'No. Yes. No. At least, yes, I suppose I am, in a way.

'Can I help?

Lavinia ran her fingers through the bird's-nest, found the pencil there, and looked gratified. 'Why, there's my yellow pencil. She put it back again in her hair-do. 'Liz, dear, don't think me interfering or anything, will you, but you're not by any chance getting a little-a little smitten with Leslie Searle, are you?

Liz thought how like her aunt it was to use an out-of-date Edwardianism like 'smitten'. She was always having to modernise Lavinia's slang for her.

'If by «smitten» you mean in love with him, be comforted. I'm not.

'I don't know that that's what I do mean. You don't love a magnet, if it comes to that.

'A what! What are you talking about?

'It isn't a falling in love, so much. It's an attraction. He fascinates you, doesn't he. She made it a statement, not a question.

Liz looked up at the troubled childish eyes, and hedged. 'Why should you think that? she asked.

'I suppose because I feel it too, Lavinia said.

This was so unexpected that Liz had no words.

'I wish now I had never asked him down to Trimmings, Lavinia said miserably. 'I know it isn't his fault-it isn't anything he does-but there's no denying that he is an upsetting person. There's Serge and Toby Tullis not on speaking terms —

'That is nothing new!

'No, but they had become friends again, and Serge was behaving quite well and working, and now-

'You can hardly blame Leslie Searle for that. It would have happened inevitably. You know it would.

'And it was very odd the way Marta took him back with her after dinner the other night and kept him till all hours. I mean the way she appropriated him as her escort, without waiting to see what the others were doing.

'But the vicar was there to see Miss Easton-Dixon home. Marta knew that. It was natural that he should go with Miss Dixon; they live in the same direction.

'It wasn't what she did, it was the way she did it. She-she grabbed.

'Oh, that is just Marta's lordly way.

'Nonsense. She felt it too. The-the fascination.

'Of course, he is exceedingly attractive, Liz said; and thought how utterly the cliche failed to convey any quality of Leslie Searle's.

'He is-uncanny, Lavinia said, unhappily. 'There is no other word. You wait and watch for the next thing he is going to do, as if it were-as if it were a sign, or a portent, or a revelation, or something. She used the 'you' impersonally, but caught Liz's eye and said challengingly: 'Well, you do don't you!

'Yes, Liz said. 'Yes, I suppose it is like that. As if-as if the smallest thing he does had significance.

Lavinia picked up the chewed pencil from the desk and doodled with it on the blotter. Liz noticed that she was making figures-of-eight. Lavinia must be very troubled indeed. When she was happy she made herring-bones.

'It's very odd, you know, Lavinia said, mulling it over in her mind. 'I get the same «kick» out of being in a room with him that I would get out of being in a room with a famous criminal. Only nicer, of course. But the same feeling of-of wrongness. She made several furious figures-of-eight. 'If he were to disappear tonight, and someone told me that he was just a beautiful demon and not a human being at all, I would believe them. So help me, I would.

Presently she flung the pencil back on to the desk, and said with a little laugh: 'And yet it's all so absurd. You look at him and try to find out what is so extraordinary about him, and what is there? Nothing. Nothing that can't be matched elsewhere, is there? That radiant fairness and that skin like a baby; that Norwegian correspondent of the Clarion that Walter used to bring down had those. He is extraordinarily graceful for a man; but so is Serge Ratoff. He has a nice gentle voice and an engaging drawl; but so have half the inhabitants of Texas and a large part of the population of Ireland. You catalogue his attractions and what do they add up to? I can tell you what they don't add up to. They don't add up to Leslie Searle.