“I beg your pardon,” he cried in pain and lifted his hat.

“Not a bit,” she said thickly and gave him what could only be described as a half-awakened leer.

Her husband turned and seemed to sense a need for conversation. “Not much room for manoeuvrin’,” he shouted. “What.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Whipplestone.

He opened an account, left the shop, and continued his explorations.

He arrived at the scene of his encounter with the little black cat. A large van was backing into the garage. Out of the tail of his eye he thought he saw briefly a darting shadow, and when the van stopped he could have fancied, almost, that he heard a faint, plaintive cry. But there was nothing to support these impressions and he hurried on, oddly perturbed.

At the far end of the Mews, by the entrance to the passageway, is a strange little cavern, once a stable, which has been converted into a shop. Here at this period a baleful fat lady made images of pigs either as doorstops or with roses and daisies on their sides and a hole in their backs for cream or flowers as the fancy might take you. They varied in size but never in design. The kiln was at the back of the cavern, and as Mr. Whipplestone looked in the fat lady stared at him out of her shadows. Across the window was the legend The Piggie Potterie, and above the entrance a notice: X. & K. Sanskrit.

“Commercial candour!” thought Mr. Whipplestone, cracking a little joke for himself. To what nationality, he wondered, could someone called Sanskrit possibly belong? Indian, he supposed. And X? Xavier perhaps. “To make a living,” he wondered, “out of the endless reduplication of pottery pigs? And why on earth does this extraordinary name seem to ring a bell?”

Conscious that the fat lady in the shadows still looked at him, he moved on into Capricorn Place and made his way to a rosy brick wall at the far end. Through an opening in this wall one leaves the Capricorns and arrives at a narrow lane passing behind the Basilica precincts and an alleyway ending in the full grandeur of Palace Park Gardens. Here the Ng’ombwana Embassy rears its important front.

Mr. Whipplestone contemplated the pink flag with its insignia of green spear and sun and mentally apostrophized it. “Yes,” he thought, “there you are, and for my part, long may you stay there.” And he remembered that at some as yet unspecified time but, unless something awful intervened, in the near future, the Ambassador and all his minions would be in no end of a tig getting ready for the state visit of their dynamic President and spotting assassins behind every plane tree. The Special Branch would be raising their punctual plaint and at the F.O., he thought, they’ll be dusting down their imperturbability. “I’m out of it all and (I’d better make up my mind to it) delighted to be so. I suppose,” he added. Conscious of a slight pang, he made his way home.

Mr. Whipplestone had been in residence for over a month. He was thoroughly settled, comfortable and contented and yet by no means lethargically so. On the contrary he had been stimulated by his change of scene and felt lively. Already he was tuned in to life in the Capricorns. “Really,” he wrote in his diary, “it’s like a little village set down in the middle of London. One runs repeatedly into the same people in the shops. On warm evenings the inhabitants stroll about the streets. One may drop in at the Sun in Splendour, where one finds, I’m happy to say, a very respectable, nay, quite a distinguished white port.”

He had been in the habit of keeping a diary for some years. Until now it had confined itself to the dry relation of facts with occasionally a touch of the irony for which he had been slightly famous at the F.O. Now, under the stimulus of his new environment, the journal expanded and became at times almost skittish.

The evening was very warm. His window was open and the curtains, too. An afterglow had suffused the plane trees and kindled the dome of the Basilica but was now faded. There was a smell of freshly watered gardens in the air and the pleasant sound of footfalls mingling with quiet voices drifted in at the open window. The muted roar of Baronsgate seemed distant, a mere background to quietude.

After a time he laid down his pen, let fall his eyeglass, and looked with pleasure at his room. Everything had fitted to a miracle. Under the care of the Chubbs his nice old bits and pieces positively sparkled. The crimson goblet glowed in the window and his Agatha Troy seemed to generate a light of its own.

“How nice everything is,” thought Mr. Whipplestone.

It was very quiet in his house. The Chubbs, he fancied, were out for the evening, but they were habitually so unobtrusive in their comings and goings that one was unaware of them. While he was writing, Mr. Whipplestone had been conscious of visitors descending the iron steps into the area. Mr. Sheridan was at home and receiving in the basement flat.

He switched off his desk lamp, got up to stretch his legs, and moved over to the bow window. The only people who were about were a man and a woman coming towards him in the darkening Square. They moved into a pool of light from the open doorway of the Sun in Splendour and momentarily he got a clearer look at them. They were both fat and there was something about the woman that was familiar.

They came on towards him into and out from the shadow of the plane trees. On a ridiculous impulse, as if he had been caught spying, Mr. Whipplestone backed away from his window. The woman seemed to stare into his eyes: an absurd notion since she couldn’t possibly see him.

Now he knew who she was: Mrs. or Miss X. Sanskrit. And her companion? Brother or spouse? Brother, almost certainly. The pig-potters.

Now they were out of the shadow and crossed the Walk in full light straight at him. And he saw they were truly awful.

It wasn’t that they were lard-fat, both of them, so fat that they might have sat to each other as models for their wares, or that they were outrageously got up. No clothes, it might be argued in these permissive days, could achieve outrageousness. It wasn’t that the man wore a bracelet and an anklet and a necklace and earrings or that what hair he had fell like pond-weed from an embroidered head-band. It wasn’t even that she (fifty if a day, thought Mr. Whipplestone) wore vast black leather hot-pants, a black fringed tunic and black boots. Monstrous though these grotesqueries undoubtedly were, they were as nothing compared with the eyes and mouths of the Sanskrits, which were, Mr. Whipplestone now saw with something like panic, equally heavily made-up.

“They shouldn’t be here,” he thought, confusedly protecting the normality of the Capricorns. “People like that. They ought to be in Chelsea. Or somewhere.”

They had crossed the Walk. They had approached his house. He backed further away. The area gate clicked and clanged, they descended the iron steps. He heard the basement flat bell. He heard Mr. Sheridan’s voice. They had been admitted.

“No, really!” Mr. Whipplestone thought in the language of his youth. “Too much! And he seemed perfectly presentable.” He was thinking of his brief encounter with Mr. Sheridan.

He settled down to a book. At least it was not a noisy party down there. One could hear little or nothing. Perhaps, he speculated, the Sanskrits were mediums. Perhaps Mr. Sheridan dabbled in spiritism and belonged to a “circle.” They looked like that. Or worse. He dismissed the whole thing and returned to the autobiography of a former chief of his department. It was not absorbing. The blurb made a great fuss about a ten-year interval imposed between the author’s death and publication. Why, God knew, thought Mr. Whipplestone, since the crashing old bore could have nothing to disclose that would unsettle the composure of the most susceptible of vestal virgins.