“Madam, your defenses are indeed formidable,” he said, bowing slightly. “My bails have been toppled. I admit defeat. Rather than retreat to the sidelines, would you permit me to continue the conversation sans romantic objectives?”

“On that condition, yes,” said Gwen. “How did you like Sally’s script?”

“Condolences again,” he said, raising his cup. “To the death of the ‘well-made play.’”

“Really? I thought it was very well-made.”

“That’s a term of art, kicking around since the last century. Some fellow declared that the ‘well-made play’ must contain certain required elements.”

“Like a drawing room?”

“That, the sudden third-act revelation through discovered documents or letters, and secret identities revealed. It’s the sort of thing Wilde parodied so brilliantly. You know Earnest?”

“My name is Gwendolyn. People have been shoving that one at me since early childhood.”

“Naturally. Well, I’m no critic, but that sort of thing is old hat, and what Sally is attempting to do is something new. I don’t think he took it far enough, to tell you the truth. He’s trying to rip the covers off the world, but he’s still stopping short. He has to let the anger out if he really wants to make a mark.”

“An angry Sally would be truly terrifying.”

“Yet it’s in him,” he said. “Ever since he came back. He hides it under this persona, but if he can ever tap the source, he’ll write something great, instead of merely good.”

He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

“Or he’ll kill someone,” he added. “But my money’s on the play.”

“I hope so,” said Gwen, shuddering.

“One thing, at least,” said Palfrey. “He’s no longer writing about his not-so-concealed desire for Sparks. That was almost embarrassingly obvious back in Cambridge days.”

“He told me about that. Do you think it’s over and done with?”

“Maybe,” he said. “If I were to analyse the script for unconscious desires based upon the creation of characters and how he cast it, I would guess that his attentions have shifted elsewhere.”

“Oh? Where?”

He smiled at her.

“Sometimes, one’s defenses can be too good,” he said. “The walls can become so thick that you never hear anyone approaching. Mrs. Bainbridge, it was a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you will permit me to call upon you in the future?”

“You have regrouped, I see, Captain.”

“The sappers have been at work,” he said. “The walls may yet crumble in time. What say I take you to the opening of Alec’s play? That’s in October. You have three months to think about your answer.”

“My life is complicated at the moment,” she said.

“Every life is complicated at every moment,” he replied, handing her his card. “I’ll look for you when autumn comes. Until then, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

He crumpled his cup and tossed it into the waste basket, then fetched his cap, and left, the first Grenadier joining him as he went, to her absolute lack of surprise.

Others took this as a signal to follow. Alec came over to Sally and reached up to clasp his shoulders.