Vanda Vane-Dotson

Tremendously busy, said VANDA VANE-DOTSON.

She was up from the country and typing manuscripts for an enthusiastic author, who, if the truth must be known, felt that his cloak-and-dagger thriller about detergent sabotage in London and New York paled by comparison with the thrilling incandescence of Miss Vane-Dotson.

Vanda, often seen at Hunt Balls where they like the atmosphere to be glowingly incandescent, was insistent on helping the author reach page 327, which was the end of the novel, but it wasn’t half a slog and by the time she had tapped the last full stop she was ready for a cheese sandwich and two glasses of champagne.