“What do we really know about this girl, except that he met her in Namibia?” Margaret Whitmore asked her husband, Charles as she stood at the window of the drawing-room looking out at the snow covered grounds of the estate.  Winter had come early, promising a white Christmas which was a couple of days away.  her step-son, Clive had come home for the holidays and had brought a friend with him.

Charles glanced up from his newspaper, removed his pipe and replied,  “Clive wrote to me about her.  They met last year at a mutual friend’s engagement party.”

Margaret turned to face him.  “He wrote to you about her?”

“Yes.  As a matter of fact, I feel as if I know her very well.  I think it’s serious.”

“Why do you say that?”

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