few hours sleep and had been woken by a radiant Cynthia with a cup of tea. Frensic had staggered through to the bathroom and had shaved with someone else's razor and had come down to breakfast determined to force the issue. But Miss Bogden's thoughts were confined to their wedding day.
'Shall we have a church wedding?' she asked as Piper toyed biliously with a boiled egg.
'What? Oh. Yes.'
'I've always wanted a church wedding.'
'So have I,' said Frensic with as much enthusiasm as if she had suggested a crematorium. He savaged the egg and decided on the direct approach. 'By the way did you ever meet the author of Pause O Men for the Virgin?'
Miss Bogden dragged her thoughts away from aisles, altars and Mendelssohn. 'No,' she said, 'the manuscript came by post.'
'By post?' said Frensic, dropping his spoon. 'Isn't that rather unusual?'
'You're not eating your egg,' said Miss Bogden. Frensic took a spoonful of egg into his dry mouth.
'Where did it come from?'
'Lloyds Bank,' said Miss Bogden and poured herself another cup of tea. 'Another cup for you?'
Frensic nodded. He needed something to wash the egg down with. 'Lloyds Bank?' he said finally. 'But there must have been words you couldn't read. What did you do then?'
'Oh I just rang up and asked.'
'You phoned? You mean you phoned Lloyds Bank and they'd...'
'Oh you are silly, Geoffrey,' said Miss Bogden, 'I didn't phone Lloyds Bank. I had this other number.'
'What other number?'
'The one I had to ring, silly,' said Miss Bogden and looked at her watch. 'Oh look at the time. It's almost nine. You've made me late, you naughty boy.' And she rushed out of the kitchen. When she returned she was dressed for the day. 'You can call a taxi when you're ready,' she said, 'and we'll meet at the office.' She kissed Frensic passionately on his egg-filled mouth and went out.
Frensic got to his feet and spat the egg into the sink and turned the tap on. Then he took a pinch of snuff, helped himself to some more tea and tried to think. A phone number she had to ring? The whole business became more extraordinary the further he delved into it. And for once delved was the right word. In looking for the source of Pause he had dug himself...Frensic shuddered. Dug was the right word too. In the plural it was exact. He went through to the lavatory and sat there miserably for ten minutes trying to concentrate on his next move. A phone number? An author who insisted on making corrections by telephone? There was an insanity about all this that made his own actions over the past few days look positively rational. And there was absolutely nothing rational about proposing to Miss Cynthia Bogden. Frensic finished his business in the lavatory and came out. On a small table in the hall stood a telephone. Frensic crossed to it and looked through Miss Bogden's private list of numbers but there was nothing there to indicate the author. Frensic returned to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee, took some more snuff and finally telephoned for a taxi.
It came at ten and at half past Frensic shuffled into the Typing Agency. Miss Bogden was waiting for him. So were twelve awful women sitting at typewriters.
'Girls,' Miss Bogden called euphemistically as Frensic peered anxiously into the office, 'I want you all to meet my fiance, Mr Geoffrey Corkadale.'
The women all rose from the seats and gaggled congratulations on Frensic while Miss Bogden suppurated happiness.
'And now the ring,' she said when the congratulations died down. She led the way out of the
