"May I ask what is wrong, Mr Griswald?"

"Wrong? In what way wrong?"

For a moment her gaze remained on him, unblinking. Then she lowered her eyes. "You seem to be bristling with antagonism this morning, sir. And I find it difficult to ignore the feeling that you're intent upon embarrassing me... even hurting me."

"Nonsense! That's one of your problems, Plimsoll. You're hypersensitive." He sensed this was the moment to list her other flaws and faults, and to tell her he had decided to give her the sack. But he recoiled from the unpleasant task.

"Is it really nonsense, sir?" She lifted her eyes and measured him for a moment, then, with a slight lift of her shoulders, she returned to annotating the day's mail.

Shit, he thought. His chance to get this business over with was slipping away. "Ah... actually, Plimsoll, there issomething on my mind."

"Really?" Her eyes remained on her work, but not her attention.

"Yes, I... well, to tell the truth, I've decided to..." He knew he was going to lie, as he usually did in awkward social circumstances. More for the sake of the other person's feelings than for his own comfort, of course.

She left her finger on the paper to mark her place and looked up at him, her eyebrows raised. "You've decided what, sir?"

He cleared his throat. "Look here, Plimsoll. This routine of work, work, work is beginning to burn me out. I'm sick of cranking out a couple of thousand words every day, every day, every day. I need a break. And I've been thinking about the south of France."

"What a splendid idea, sir! And perhaps you're right. A change of scene might do you a world of good. But, of course, you mustn't stop writing altogether. We both know the danger in that. The juices stop flowing and your style becomes heavy, and-"

"Never mind my goddamned juices!"

"The season's already begun, so I'll have to get cracking to find us someplace pleasant but not overrun with tourists." She smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm afraid I have only schoolgirl French: accurate enough in grammar, frightful in accent. But still-"

"Hold it! I didn't say wewere taking a vacation. I said Iwas."

"Oh," she said, with a soft catch. "Oh, I see." A slight flush reddened her long throat. "I didn't mean to... But I naturally assumed that..." She smiled bravely, but Matthew could have sworn her eyes were damp. Then she took a quick nasal breath and continued in a businesslike tone. "And what do you have in mind for me to do while you're en vacance,sir?" The bit of French just slipped out. "I assume I shall act as a letter drop, unless you want to deal personally with all the trivia of-"

"Listen, Plimsoll, the fact is... Well, I'm not absolutely sure I will be coming back to Britain. This damned weather and... everything. And even if I do return to London, it won't be the same as before. I plan to reduce my work rate permanently. I can afford a little more leisure. I mean... well, goddamnit, I've earned it. In any case I won't be needing a... well, it would be a waste of talent to use a person like you just to answer a few letters and... that sort of thing."

As he spoke, her eyes slowly widened, her spine straightened, and she seemed to grow taller in her chair. "Are you letting me go, Mr Griswald?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it, sir?"

"Well, it's not as though... You know, funnily enough, just the other day I was talking to someone from Piper and Hathaway, and he said they were dying to have you back," he lied with his usual glibness. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they gave you a-"

"I am not interested in returning to copyediting, sir," she said firmly.

"Oh? Well, that's your business, of course. I just thought you might-"

"Excuse me for interrupting, but would you mind terribly if we didn't discuss this further just now? I have a lot of work to get out this morning. And I confess that I find this subject rather... unsettling."

He shrugged. "Whatever you say. But it's something we have to face sooner or later."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before returning to the task of responding to a devoted fan from Seattle who suggested, not at all obliquely, that if the Great Man ever found himself in the Pacific Northwest, she would be delighted to be of service.

An hour passed in taut silence broken only by the staccato click of Plimsoll's typewriter in counterpoint to the loose clatter of his old portable, which he loathed because it was forever breaking down, but it had become so much a part of the Griswald mystique that every visitor wanted to have a look at it. Another sacrifice he made to his image. He kept his head down, pretending to be absorbed in work. He couldn't understand why she was reacting in this childish way. This unexpressed resentment! This accusing efficiency! This hysterical silence!

"I need a drink," he grumbled, as he rose to get himself a glass of burgundy. He didn't really feel the need for a drink, but he wanted to let her know that this wasn't easy for him, either. "Look at this place! I don't know why that goddamned Mrs What's-her-name can't manage to get here and clean up. God knows I pay her enough!"

Plimsoll did not respond. She rolled the last of the morning's letters from her typewriter and added it to the stack for his signature. Then she turned her chair towards Matthew's desk and folded her hands in her lap. "There are one or two things I should like to say to you, sir."

Here it comes, he said to himself. "All right, let's have it." He was glad she wasn't going to accept being fired without complaint, because exposing himself to her angry vitriol would diminish any sense of guilt he might feel over this business. He carried his glass to the desk and sat down heavily. "Fire away, Plimsoll," he said with a martyred sigh.

"Before I 'fire away', sir, I should like to remind you again that Mr Gold will be calling from New York in..." She tipped up her pendant watch, "...in approximately two hours."

"Forewarned is forearmed... the frigging bloodsucker."

"Your unjust evaluation of Mr Gold provides us with a useful starting point for what I have to say."

"Just so the starting point isn't too far from the finish line."

"I'll do my best to be succinct, sir." She composed herself for what he feared would be a lengthy tirade. "I should begin by telling you that I have always considered you to be one of the most gifted writers of our age."

"I have seldom heard a set-up line more pregnant with its 'however'."

She smiled. "However... I also find you to be the most self-centered and ungrateful man I have ever met. Mrs O'Neil serves as a case in point. She has cleaned up after your silly, profligate parties for six years and you've never even bothered to learn her name. Mr Gold carried you through your most difficult period, and yet you constantly refer to him as a parasite. And I, who have worked with you and supported you for these many years... Tell me, Mr Griswald, do you even knowmy first name?"

"Your first name?"

"My first name."

"Well, it's... All right, so I don't recall it at this moment! But I'm sure you have one. Coming, as you do, from generations of C of E freeloaders, I have no doubt that your bishop father lavished every inexpensive luxury on you, including a first name. Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised if, in an orgy of nomenclatural prodigality, he didn't bestow a middle name on you as well! He might even have— What are you smiling at?!"

"Nothing important, sir. I've always been amused by your habit of retreating behind barriers of 'sesquipedalian obfuscation' when you're stung with a sense that you're in the wrong. It's a charming tic, really. Particularly in a man noted for the leanness of his style. Don't you agree?"

"No, I do not!" He bit off each word.