A waiter materialized with a platter of hors d’oeuvres, which he set down in front of the two elegant ladies seated across each other, at a table for three. Deeply engrossed in conversation, Claire and Pauline barely noticed its arrival.

‘Do you honestly think we should tell Antonia about that ghastly poem?’ asked Claire. Her words seemed to imply that they shouldn’t mention it, although her smug expression suggested entirely the opposite.

‘Well, if it’s in the papers and it’s by W.H. Auden, she’s bound to find out about it,’ said Pauline. ‘Is it really all that bad?’

‘Goodness, yes. It shows Cyril in the most unflattering light. Have a look for yourself—especially the last few lines.’

Claire reached into her handbag and handed a newspaper to Pauline. The words ‘Partition: A Poem by W.H. Auden’ caught her eye. Pauline began to read it, at first in silence, and then, murmuring the last few lines aloud, as if to convince herself that this had actually appeared in print.

The weather was frightfully hot,

And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,

But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,

A continent for better or worse divided.

The next day he sailed for England, where he quickly forgot

The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,

Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.

‘Oh dear, this is quite harsh. But it was hardly like Cyril drew that line of his own choosing,’ said Pauline. ‘Antonia says that he doesn’t want to be reminded of it at all. Says he burnt all the papers connected with it. And even returned his fee of £3000.’

Claire looked over her shoulder and dropped her voice to the breathy whisper of confidences, ‘Well, some would say that Cyril was rewarded handsomely enough upon his return from India. I mean, to be made a Law Lord without ever having been a Judge!’ Claire raised a suggestive eyebrow, indicating just how out of turn that was. ‘And then, a few months later, he was suddenly a Baron! Don’t you remember how chuffed Antonia was at becoming Lady Radcliffe, flaunting it in our faces at every chance?’

‘Oh, come now, Claire. I think we’re being a little unkind here,’ said Pauline. ‘If anything, it was that crooked Dickie Mountbatten and his lust for laurels that forced Cyril’s hand. And he gained far more from the whole exercise than poor Cyril did.’

‘I guess you’re right, Pauline,’ conceded Claire, sipping her Pimm’s. ‘In any case, it was the fault of the squabbling Indian and Pakistani governments. Appallingly poor governance—how else could a million people die just by the drawing of a line?’

Pauline nodded distractedly, as she tried to catch a waiter’s attention for more pressing matters. Her White Lady wasn’t quite chilled enough.

Just then, Antonia Radcliffe breezed into the restaurant in her perfumed paisley, pashmina and pearls.

‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, darlings,’ she gushed. ‘Tell me, what did I miss?’