Of these—reading from right to left—one was a tall, angular, hawk-faced female with a stony eye. The other, to whom I gave but a passing glance at the moment, was small, and so it seemed to me, pleasant-looking. She had bright hair faintly powdered with grey, and mild eyes of a china blue. She reminded me of the better class of cat. I took her to be some casual caller who had looked in for a cup of tea. It was the hawk on whom I riveted my attention. She was looking at me with a piercing and unpleasant stare, and I thought how exactly she resembled the picture I had formed of her in my mind from Ukridge’s conversation. “Miss Ukridge?” I said, sliding on a rug towards her and feeling like some novice whose manager, against his personal wishes, has fixed him up with a match with the heavyweight champion. “I am Miss Ukridge,” said the other woman. “Miss Watterson, Mr. Corcoran.” It was a shock, but, the moment of surprise over, I began to feel something approaching mental comfort for the first time since I had entered this house of slippery rugs and supercilious butlers. Somehow I had got the impression from Ukridge that his aunt was a sort of stage aunt, all stiff satin and raised eyebrows. This half-portion with the mild blue eyes I felt that I could tackle. It passed my comprehension why Ukridge should ever have found her intimidating. “I hope you will not mind if we have our little talk before Miss Watterson,” she said with a charming smile. “She has come to arrange the details of the Pen and Ink Club dance which we are giving shortly. She will keep quite quiet and not interrupt. You don’t mind?” “Not at all, not at all,” I said in my attractive way. It is not exaggerating to say that at this moment I felt debonair. “Not at all, not at all. Oh, not at all.” “Won’t you sit down?” “Thank you, thank you.” The hawk moved over to the window, leaving us to ourselves. “Now we are quite cosy,” said Ukridge’s aunt. “Yes, yes,” I agreed. Dash it, I liked this woman. “Tell me, Mr. Corcoran,” said Ukridge’s aunt, “are you on the staff of _Woman’s Sphere_? It is one of my favourite papers. I read it every week.” “The outside staff.” “What do you mean by the outside staff?” “Well, I don’t actually work in the office, but the editor gives me occasional jobs.” “I see. Who is the editor now?” I began to feel slightly less debonair. She was just making conversation, of course, to put me at my ease, but I wished she would stop asking me these questions. I searched desperately in my mind for a name—any name—but as usual on these occasions every name in the English language had passed from me. “Of course. I remember now,” said Ukridge’s aunt, to my profound relief. “It’s Mr. Jevons, isn’t it? I met him one night at dinner.” “Jevons,” I burbled. “That’s right. Jevons.” “A tall man with a light moustache.” “Well, fairly tall,” I said, judicially. “And he sent you here to interview me?” “Yes.”