The Summer of Sir Lancelot

Anne James looked doubtful. She sometimes felt her dear friend Effie Spratt pushed her about just the teeniest bit.
    ‘He‘s my patient,‘ she returned possessively.
    ‘Oh, come on! Be a sport. It‘s absolutely vital, honestly.‘
    ‘The Staff Nurse will notice it.‘
    ‘Of course she won‘t. She never notices anything. Look, I‘ll give you my new pair of fifteen denier Christian Diors.‘
    ‘Oh, all right,‘ succumbed Nurse James.
    ‘Mr Quest,‘ began Euphemia, drawing screens feverishly round his bed an hour later, ‘I‘ve come to do your back.‘
    ‘But what‘s the rush, Nursie?‘ Mr Quest tossed aside his Vogue. ‘I rather hoped you‘d take your time, then we could have a nice little chat.‘
    ‘Did you?‘ responded Euphemia eagerly.
    ‘Particularly as it‘s you, Nursie,‘ purred Mr Quest.
    ‘Mr Quest,‘ she burst out, ‘I - I‘ve got something I really must tell you.‘ She started to rub the small of his back vigorously with surgical spirit.
    He looked surprised. ‘Go on?‘
    ‘It‘s — it‘s a fabulous secret.‘
    ‘You don‘t look old enough to have any, Nursie.‘ Mr Quest began to look extremely interested.
    ‘Do you know why I‘m a nurse?‘
    ‘Because you want to succour the sick and dying.‘
    ‘No.‘ Euphemia shook her head. ‘I utterly hate nursing. I only took it up so my parents in Singapore would send me to England. I — I want to be a model, Mr Quest.‘
    Mr Quest, lying on his side, reached for a cigarette from his locker and lit it.
    ‘I‘m sure I‘d be ever so good at it, Mr Quest. Ail my friends say so. I‘ve done modelling at home in Singapore — the golf club dance posters, you know. I‘ve got a lovely figure,‘ she assured him.
    ‘So I see, even in those bell-tents they make you wear.‘ Mr Quest rolled on his back and inspected her through half-closed eyes. ‘The right-shaped face, too... h‘m... yes, Nursie dear, you might have quite a future there.‘
    ‘Do you think so, Mr Quest?‘ she asked breathlessly. ‘Could you give me an audition, or whatever it is, at your office? I could get away somehow any afternoon.‘
    ‘These things aren‘t done quite so formally, you know.‘ He flicked his cigarette into the fish-paste jar issued as an ashtray. ‘We do so like to keep the business side as undreary as possible. Why don‘t we meet for a quiet drink to discuss the whole project, once I‘m out of this charnel house?‘
    Euphemia bit her lip.
    ‘That‘s the usual practice,‘ murmured Mr Quest off-handedly, flicking into the fish-paste jar again.
    ‘Yes, I‘d love to,‘ Euphemia decided quickly. ‘When?‘
    After all, once she was on the cover of every magazine in London and asked to the Asquith every night by film-stars, Uncle Lancelot could hardly stop her from marrying Tim. Then he could give up that awful job in Edinburgh and they‘d live in a delightful flat overlooking the Park and have lots of wonderful friends. That drink with Mr Quest, she told herself, would be the same as her preliminary interview with the Matron. She bought the gold dress and a novel about models and decided she would have to be more sophisticated.
    After the drink, Mr Quest suggested dinner, explaining it was a long job picking a really successful model — ‘it‘s the personality inside the face, not outside, Nursie dear,‘ he informed her, several times. A couple of nights later he took her to dinner again. Each time, the white Jag brought her back to the hospital prompt at ten. Mr Quest was the perfect gentleman.
    ‘Well, here we are, Nursie,‘ Mr Quest now explained, drawing up the Jag shortly after Euphemia‘s escape through Sir Lancelot‘s window. ‘My flat‘s on the top floor of the block.‘ He gave her a playful pat on the knee. ‘But don‘t worry, there‘s a lift.‘
    ‘I hope we haven‘t kept the others waiting,‘ she remarked worriedly, as he helped her from the car.
    ‘No, I don‘t think so,‘ Mr Quest assured her.
    As they rose in the satin-lined lift Mr Quest explained, ‘Larry my photographer may be a few minutes late. Now I come to think of it, I sent him out for some shots w ith a couple of my girls by the river.‘
    ‘But Mr Collins and Mr McKnight and Mr Wade will be coming to see me photographed?‘ Euphemia added anxiously.
    ‘Sure enough, Nursie dear. They‘ll probably be waiting already - I told Jim Collins on the phone to go straight in and mix themselves some drinks. Though on the other hand,‘ he