Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. Only she hadn’t. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her.
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