All the way to the station on her cycle, and all the way up to Mr. Foyle's house in the car, Sam kept running through the telephone conversation with her father, adding all the clever things she ought to have said to his murmurings about Morality and swallowing all the childish whats and whys she shouldn't have.

Sam had her mouth open to say Good morning, sir before she saw that it wasn't Mr. Foyle at the door, but a man her own age in light-blue shirtsleeves and dark-blue braces.

"Oh," she said. "Hello!"

"Hello!" He looked as startled as she felt, but he started to smile, just with one corner of his mouth, as if to say that for him it was a glad surprise. Not a shock, as it had been to Mr. Foyle when she reported for duty in May. "Are you…?"

"You must be Andrew!" Sam blurted out. She'd imagined a pilot must look like Leslie Howard or perhaps David Niven, but he was dark-haired and clean-shaven. She'd imagined Andrew Foyle would have blue eyes, like his father's, but they were brown, a clear warm brown like strong tea or a monk's robe in a stained-glass window. "I'm Samantha Stewart. I'm your father's driver."

He stepped back and held the door open for her. "Come in." His voice was unexpected, too, lighter and smoother than Mr. Foyle's, though there was a little of his father's measured rhythm to the words when he went on, "Um, he never told me he had a…"

"What?" Sam broke in, too quickly. Never told him he had a driver? But he needed a driver, she was needed, Dad was wrong, wrong about everything from the importance of her job to the sort of people she met.

"Well, um, a girl."

Something dropped like a lift in Sam's stomach.

Andrew's smile deepened a little. "Especially such a pretty one." He tilted his head and those eyes flicked over her as if… as if…

"I see you don't hold back." Sam tightened her hands around her driving gloves. Oh, this was worse than Tony. She hadn't liked Tony, not seriously, but he'd been sweet in his shy efforts to flirt, not lordly. Pilots think they're God's gift, one of the girls she'd trained with had said, and oh, it seemed that was much much too true. "Obviously been well trained by the R.A.F."

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms languidly. "Have you met many pilots?" The smile was smug, now. Sam would have liked to kick his shins.

"No," she answered coolly, keeping her back straight. "I tend to mix more with policemen." She raised her eyes to the fanlight over the door. "Just as well, really."

There was an awkward pause, and he straightened up. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you," he said. "We've got plenty of W.A.A.F. drivers. I just didn't expect to meet one driving my dad."

I didn't expect to meet a… a… masher… in Mr. Foyle's house. "Well." Sam held herself as much like Queen Mary as she could. "I was hoping to cook or knit balaclavas for His Majesty's forces, but here I am."