"I—" began Daphne.
"If—" said Becky simultaneously.
They both laughed, a forced sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
"No, you first," said Becky.
"I just wanted to know how the colonel's shaping up."
"Took his briefing like a man," said Becky. "We're off to our first official meeting tomorrow. Child and Company in Fleet Street. I've told him to treat the whole exercise like a dress rehearsal, as I'm saving the one I think we have a real chance with for later in the week."
"And Charlie?"
"All a bit much for him. He can't stop thinking of the colonel as his commanding officer."
"It would have been the same for you, if Charlie had suggested that the man teaching you accountancy should drop in and check the weekly takings at 147."
"I'm avoiding that particular gentleman at the moment," said Becky. "I'm only just putting in enough academic work to avoid being reprimanded; lately my commendeds have become passes, while my passes are just not good enough. If I don't manage to get a degree at the end of all this there will be only one person to blame."
"You'll be one of the few women who's a bachelor of arts. Perhaps you should demand they change the degree to SA."
"SA?"
"Spinster of arts."
They laughed at what they both knew to be a hoary chestnut, as they continued to avoid the real reason they were in that waiting room. Suddenly the door swung open and they looked up to see that the nurse had resumed.
"The doctor will see you now."
"May I come as well?"
"Yes, I'm sure that will be all right."
Both women rose and followed the nurse farther down the same corridor until they reached a white door with a small brass plate almost worn away with rubbing which read "Fergus Gould, MD." A gentle knock from the nurse elicited a "yes" and Daphne and Becky entered the room together.
"Good morning, good morning," said the doctor cheerfully in a soft Scottish burr, shaking hands with the two of them in turn. "Won't you please be seated? The tests have been completed and I have excellent news for you." He resumed to the seat behind his desk and opened a file in front of him. They both smiled, the taller of the two relaxing for the first time in days.
"I'm happy to say that you are physically in perfect health, but as this is your first child"—he watched both women turn white—"you will have to behave rather more cautiously over the coming months. But as long as you do, I can see no reason why this birth should have any complications. May I be the first to congratulate you?"
"Oh God, no," she said, nearly fainting. "I thought you said the news was excellent."
"Why, yes," replied Dr. Gould. "I assumed you would be delighted."
Her friend interjected. "You see, Doctor, there's a problem. She's not married."
"Oh yes, I do see," said the doctor, his voice immediately changing tone. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea. Perhaps if you had told me at our first meeting—"
"No, I'm entirely to blame, Dr. Gould. I had simply hoped—"
"No, it is I who am to blame. How extremely tactless of me." Dr. Gould paused thoughtfully. "Although it remains illegal in this country, I am assured that there are excellent doctors in Sweden who—"
"That is not possible," said the pregnant woman. "You see, it's against everything my parents would have considered 'acceptable behavior.'"
"Good morning, Hadlow," said the colonel, as he marched into the bank, handing the manager his top-coat, hat and cane.
"Good morning, Sir Danvers," replied the manager, passing the hat, coat and cane on to an assistant. "May I say how honored we are that you thought our humble establishment worthy of your consideration."
Becky couldn't help reflecting that it was not quite the same greeting she had received when visiting another bank of similar standing only a few weeks before.
"Would you be kind enough to come through to my office?" the manager continued, putting his arm out as if he were guiding wayward traffic.
"Certainly, but first may I introduce Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon, both of whom are my associates in this venture."
"Delighted, I'm sure," the manager said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose before shaking hands with Charlie and Becky in turn.
Becky noticed that Charlie was unusually silent and kept pulling at his collar, which looked as though it might be half an inch too tight for comfort. However, after spending a morning in Savile Row the previous week being measured from head to foot for a new suit, he had refused to wait a moment longer when Daphne suggested he should be measured for a shirt, so in the end Daphne was left to guess his neck size.
"Coffee?" inquired the manager, once they had all settled in his office.
"No, thank you," said the colonel.
Becky would have liked a cup of coffee but realized that the manager had assumed Sir Danvers had spoken for all three of them. She bit her lip.
"Now, how can I be of assistance, Sir Danvers?" The manager nervously touched the knot of his tie.
"My associates and I currently own a property in Chelsea Terrace Number 147 which although a small venture at present is nevertheless progressing satisfactorily." The manager's smile remained in place. "We purchased the premises some eighteen months ago at a cost of one hundred pounds and that investment has shown a profit this year of a little over forty-three pounds."
"Very satisfactory," said the manager. "Of course, I have read your letter and the accounts you so kindly had sent over by messenger."
Charlie was tempted to tell him who the messenger had been.
"However, we feel the time has come to expand," continued the colonel. "And in order to do so we will require a bank that can show a little more initiative than the establishment with which we're presently dealing as well as one that has its eye on the future. Our current bankers, I sometimes feel, are still living in the nineteenth century. Frankly, they are little more than holders of deposits, while what we are looking for is the service of a real bank."
"I understand."
"It's been worrying me—" said the colonel, suddenly breaking off and fixing his monocle to his left eye.
"Worrying you?" Mr. Hadlow sat forward anxiously in his chair.
"Your tie."
"My tie?" The manager once again fingered the knot nervously.
"Yes, your tie. Don't tell me—the Buffs?"
"You are correct, Sir Danvers."
"Saw some action, did you, Hadlow?"
"Well, not exactly, Sir Danvers. My sight, you understand." Mr. Hadlow began fiddling with his glasses.
"Bad luck, old chap," said the colonel, his monocle dropping back down. "Well, to continue. My colleagues and I are of a mind to expand, but I feel it would only be the honorable thing to let you know that we have an appointment with a rival establishment on Thursday afternoon."
"Thursday afternoon," repeated the manager, after dipping his quill pen once more into the inkwell on the front of his desk and adding this to the other pieces of information he had already recorded.
"But I had rather hoped it would not have gone unnoticed," continued the colonel, "that we chose to come and see you first."
"I'm most flattered," said Mr. Hadlow. "And what terms were you hoping this bank might offer, Sir Danvers, that your own could not?"
The colonel paused for a moment and Becky glanced towards him alarmed, as she couldn't remember if she had briefed him on terms. Neither of them had expected to have reached quite this far at the first meeting.
The colonel cleared his throat. "We would naturally expect competitive terms, if we are to move our business to your bank, being aware of the long-term implications."
This answer seemed to impress Hadlow. He looked down at the figures in front of him and pronounced: "Well, I see you are requesting a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds for the purchase of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace, which, bearing in mind the state of your account, would require an overdraft facility"—he paused, appearing to be making a calculation—"of at least one hundred and seventy pounds."