Soldier No More

You look like a hussar. I met an absolutely smashing one at Christmas, at our hunt ball—Jerry Somebody-or- Other. He wore these marvellous tight trousers which looked like they'd been painted on him—Jerry Somebody—' she waved a rather grubby hand vaguely '—if you're a hussar then you'll know him. He has this birthmark ...'

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Roche tried desperately to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than what she was showing: there was already a generous portion of Lady Alexandra on view, but there was a lot more where that came from—and it was coming, what was more.

'No, I—I'm afraid I'm not a hussar,' he said quickly, before she could render Jerry Somebody's identification easier by locating the birthmark for him.

'What a shame!' The grubby paw toyed with the next button.

'But you don't look like a guardsman—'

He had to put a stop to this somehow: that button was going to give way any second now, and then even his sunglasses would be no protection.

'—you look too intelligent for a guardee—almost haggard, like Daddy's accountant —'

'Lexy—' interposed Jilly.

'No! Don't interrupt me when I've almost got it.' The paw waved Jilly off, but then came back to the button, tugging at it distractedly. ' 'Doing frightfully important things', Jilly said

—something fearfully hush-hush, I'll bet—'

'Lexy!'

'I've got it!' The button gave way. ' You're in the Secret Service!'

The moment of truth elongated as she pointed at him in triumph and the dress gaped open.

'You're bursting out all over, Lexy,' said Jilly sharply.

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'So what? We came here to bathe, didn't we?' Lexy paused.

'I'm wearing my—' she looked down suddenly '—oh! I'm not, am I!'

'No, you're not, Lexy dear,' said Meriel Stephanides. 'You're definitely not in the Secret Service, like David.'

'Oh— damn!!' exclaimed Lexy, snatching clumsily at the edges of the dress. 'You made me come away so quickly—

you're always rushing me, both of you!' As she captured the dress the towel under her arm escaped, liberating two scraps of bright scarlet material at Roche's feet. He bent to retrieve them, half instinctively and half to give himself something to do other than goggling helplessly at a situation which had passed beyond his control.

Lexy's reflexes were one disastrous second slower than his: as he started to straighten up, she bent over him, and his head collided with soft breasts which momentarily enveloped him with expensive perfume, perspiration and embarrassment.

'Oh—fff fff— sorry!' She looked into his eyes at close quarters, but he was too overwhelmed to register her expression. 'Thanks—' Pause—'— oh bugger!'

Roche croaked incoherently. What made things worse was that Jilly and Meriel Stephanides, the brains and the beauty of this incongruous trio, were laughing at him.

'Not at all like Tiffany Case,' said Meriel.

'Or Vesper—or Gala Brand,' said Jilly.

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'Or James Bond, come to that,' said Meriel.

'Who?' said Lexy, frowning at them.

'We told you—we gave you From Russia With Love to read, Lexy dear,' said Meriel sweetly.

'But she doesn't read thrillers—remember?' said Jilly to her confederate. 'She only reads historical novels— she's too busy swotting up on Galla Placidia, to keep up with David Audley tonight—remember?'

Meriel nodded. 'Of course! To keep up with David! Sweet chance she's got—of keeping up with David!'

'Always supposing that she still wants to keep up with that David . . .' Jilly nodded meaningfully at Meriel.

'With that David?'

'With that David?' Meriel glanced at Roche calculatingly. 'Of course— with that David!'

'Tactics,' said Jilly.

'Tactics!' agreed Meriel. 'Conjure up the green-eyed monster as an ally: pit David of the Secret Service against David the Dragoon!'

'Of course! That's why she wanted to know whether he'd been a hussar!' Jilly bobbed agreement in turn. 'Horse to horse—sword to sword! Or should it be 'sabre'?'

'We'll have to ask him.' Meriel continued to consider Roche appraisingly. 'But d'you think it'd be a fair match?'

Jilly eyed Roche like a horse-dealer at an auction. 'Don't see dummy5