The arrival of an unexpected male guest had been exciting, but he seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Mathilda. Valerie wondered what men saw in Mathilda, and glanced resentfully across at her. It happened that Roydon looked up at that moment, and their eyes met. He seemed to see her for the first time, and to be shaken. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying, flushed, and picked up the thread again in a hurry, Valerie began to feel more cheerful. Playwrights! One never knew about them; they became famous overnight, and made pots and pots of money, and were seen about everywhere with the best people.

Joseph, whom Nathaniel suspected of having connived from the start at Willoughby’s arrival, said that he could smell the sawdust again, a figure of speech which apparently left Roydon with the impression that he had been a circus-artist. Joseph speedily disillusioned him. ‘I remember once in Durban, when I was playing Hamlet…’ said Joseph.

‘Go on, Joe! You never played Hamlet in your life!’ interrupted Mathilda. ‘Your outline’s all wrong.’

‘Ah, the days when I was young!’ Joseph said.

But Roydon wasn’t interested in Joseph’s Hamlet. He shrugged Shakespeare aside. He said that he himself owed a debt to Strindberg. As for Pinero’s comedies, which Joseph had played in, he dismissed them with the crushing label: ‘That old stuff!’

Joseph felt depressed. He had a charming little anecdote to tell, about the time he had played Benedick, in Sydney, but it didn’t seem as though Roydon would appreciate it. A conceited young man, thought Joseph, dispiritedly eating his savoury.

When Maud rose from the table, Paula was obliged to stop telling Nathaniel about Roydon’s play. She glowered at being interrupted, but went out with the other women.

Maud led the way to the drawing-room. It was a big room, and it felt chilly. Only two standard-lamps, placed near the fireplace, lit it, and the far corners of the room lay in shadow. Paula gave a shiver, and switched on the ceiling-lights. ‘I hate this house!’ she said. ‘It hates us, too. You can almost feel it.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked Valerie, looking round half-fearfully, half-sceptically.

‘I don’t know. I think something happened here, perhaps. Can’t you feel how sinister it is? No, I suppose you can’t.’

‘You don’t mean that it’s haunted, do you?’ Valerie asked, her voice rising slightly. ‘Because nothing would induce me to spend a night here, if it is!’

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ Paula answered. ‘But there’s something about it – I’m always conscious of it. Cigarette, Mathilda?’

Mathilda took one. ‘Thank you, my love. Shall we gather round the fire, chicks, and tell ghost stories?’

‘Oh, don’t!’ shuddered Valerie.

‘Don’t let Paula impress you!’ Mathilda advised her. ‘She is just being fey. There’s nothing wrong with this house.’

‘It is a pity that there are no radiators in this room,’ said Maud, ensconcing herself by the fire.

‘It isn’t that,’ said Paula curtly.