miraculously white, and if you prefer Rosalind to Viola you’d better quit her now.

“Anybody who wants to wear those cross-country clothes is welcome to them,” she said. “I’m a girl and I’m satisfied to be. I don’t see why I should wear a hard-boiled shirt and a necktie any more than a man should wear a pink georgette trimmed with filet. By the end of the week, when I’ve spent six solid days selling men’s clothes to women, I feel’s if I’d die happy if I could take a milk bath and put on white satin and pearls and a train six yards long from the shoulders — you know.”

Not the least of Myra’s charm was a certain unexpected and pleasing humour. It was as though, on opening a chocolate box, you were to find it contained caviar.