She leaned back in her chair with her finger-tips together, a pretty look of meditation on her face.
“ Do you think it would interest the readers of Woman’s Sphere to know which novel of mine is my own favourite?”
“ I am sure it would.”
“ Of course,” said Ukridge’s aunt, “it is not easy for an author to answer a question like that. You see, one has moods in which first one book and then another appeals to one.”
“ Quite,” I replied. “Quite.”
“ Which of my books do you like best, Mr. Corcoran?”
There swept over me the trapped feeling one gets in nightmares. From six baskets the six Pekingese stared at me unwinkingly.
“ Er—oh, all of them,” I heard a croaking voice reply. My voice, presumably, though I did not recognise it.
“ How delightful!” said Ukridge
