her bag, which she always kept so VERY private to herself.

She turned now, her face white, her dark eyes blazing with uncanny, overwrought excitement. She saw him stooping to the bag, undoing the loosely buckled strap, unattentive.

‘Your what?’ he asked.

‘Oh, a little enamel box — yellow — with a design of a cormorant plucking her breast — ’

She went towards him, stooping her beautiful, bare arm, and deftly turned some of her things, disclosing the box, which was exquisitely painted.

‘That is it, see,’ she said, taking it from under his eyes.

And he was baffled now. He was left to fasten up the