Mathilda reflected that this was true. Paula never bothered about her clothes. She was neither dowdy nor smart; she flung raiment on, and somehow one never knew what she was wearing: it didn’t count, it was nothing but a covering for Paula’s thin body: you were aware only of Paula herself. ‘I hate you, Paula; my God, how I hate you!’ Mathilda said, knowing that people remembered her by the exquisite creations she wore. ‘Go away! I’m less fortunate.’

Paula’s gaze focused upon her. ‘Darling, your clothes are perfect.’

‘I know they are. What have you done with your playwright?’

‘I don’t know. Such an absurd fuss! As though the house weren’t big enough – ! Sturry said he’d see to it.’

‘Well, as long as your playwright doesn’t wear soft shirts and a plume of hair – !’

‘What do these things matter?’

‘They’ll matter fast enough to your Uncle Nat,’ prophesied Mathilda.

They did. Nathaniel, introduced without warning to Willoughby Roydon, glared at him, and at Paula, and could not even bring himself to utter conventional words of welcome. It was left to Joseph to fill the breach, and he did so, aware of Nat’s fury, and covering it up with his own overflowing goodwill.

The situation was saved by Sturry, announcing dinner. They went into the dining-room. Willoughby Roydon sat between Mathilda and Maud. He despised Maud, but Mathilda he liked. He talked to her about the tendency of modern drama, and she bore it very meekly, realising that it was her duty to draw his fire.

He was a sallow young man, with rather indeterminate features, and an over-emphatic manner. Listening, a little inattentively, to his conversation, Mathilda pictured him against a middle-class background of indifference. She felt sure that his parents were worthy people, perhaps afraid of their clever son, perhaps scornful of a talent they could not understand. He was unsure of himself, aggressive from very lack of poise. Mathilda felt sorry for him, and schooled her features to an expression of interest in what he was saying.

Paula, seated beside Nathaniel, was talking to him about Roydon’s play, forgetting to eat her dinner in her earnestness, annoying him by gesticulating with her thin, nervous hands, insisting on his attending to her, even though he didn’t want to, wasn’t interested. Valerie, on his right, was bored, and taking no pains to hide it. She had pretended at first to be deeply interested, saying: ‘My dear, how marvellous! Do tell me about your part! I shall adore coming to see you in it!’ But Paula didn’t want to capture Valerie’s interest; she brushed her aside with that careless contempt which made her look suddenly like Stephen. So Valerie sighed, patted her sleek curls into position, and despised Paula for wearing a dress which didn’t suit her, and for combing her hair so casually off her face.

It was being a bad evening for Valerie. She had wanted to come to Lexham (in fact, she had insisted on Stephen’s bringing her) because she knew that Nathaniel did not like her. She hadn’t doubted her ability to captivate him, but even the Chanel model she was wearing had failed to bring that admiring look into his eyes which she was accustomed to see in men’s eyes. Joseph had twinkled appreciation, but that was no use (though pleasant) because Joseph had no money to leave.