thighs. She had flipped one side of her dress behind her, just as if there was no male present.

The food was good, the wine delicious, the room cosy, the company fascinating alas that youth knows not the treasure of such moments. a fact that no doubt prompted Shaw to say that youth is wasted on the

young.

―

"Sometimes I think I'd rather be a boy," said Gillian. “A boy can be a boy and a girl if he wants to." Gillian, I realized, specialized in cheerful pronouncements that made little sense. Claire, munching heartily, delicately reached over to me to push back into place an errant shoulder strap of my slip.

"Your name is Agatha," announced Gillian to me, taking a sip of wine. I told her not to be daft. "Of course you're Agatha," she per- sisted. "Names fit people, you see. She's a Claire through and through. I'm a Gillian. Always have been. You're an Agatha and you can't do anything about it, see?" I didn't, but let it go. Claire undid her dainty little wrist watch and fastened it on my left wrist; my hand was lying in my lap, so that the movements of her fingers were decidedly dis- turbing. I pressed my knees together under the lovely black dress that hung several inches below them, and crossed one foot behind the other. The silk of one stocking swished against the other.

"Want to show you something,” said Gillian, scrambling to her feet and striding out of the room. Claire took my hand in both of hers. squeezed it, and looked into my eyes, smiling enigmatically as she did so. My heart thumped. Then, breaking the mood suddenly, she stuck one long leg straight out in front of her, pulled up her dress almost to her garters, and said brightly, "See, we're wearing the same stockings." Encouraged, I did the same, and our legs touched. I flatter myself my young limb was almost as shapely as hers my legs are still one of my best features. We re-adjusted our skirts at the sound of Gillian's brisk footsteps.

"

Gillian flung herself down on the thick rug under our feet, the fire catching the coppery tones of her hair, and opened a large photograph album. "Here," she exclaimed, "a New Year's Eve party we had two years ago. She had placed the album across my knees. "And that's Uncle Trevor," she went on, pointing to a figure in a small group stand- ing in front of a huge punch-bowl. "He and Auntie didn't know we were having a fancy-dress party so he borrowed some of Mummy's

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