‘Yes, I’m pleased to say that he was exceptional,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve never met anybody quite like him.’

‘He refused to compromise,’ drawled George. ‘What was it he used to say? “Nothing but the best, or go without.” ’

‘Always felt the same way myself,’ said Ballantine fatuously.

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked George.

‘I’ll have one of those Bullshots you spoke about so passionately this morning.’

‘Passionately,’ guffawed Ballantine.

‘Well, there are some things one feels passionately about,’ smiled George, looking at the barman and briefly raising his index finger. ‘I shall feel quite bereft without your father,’ he continued. ‘Oddly enough, it was here that we were supposed to be having lunch on the day that he died. The last time I met him we went to a perfectly extraordinary place that has an arrangement of some sort – I can’t believe that it’s reciprocal – with the Travellers in Paris. The portraits were at least four times life size – we laughed about that a good deal – he was on very good form, although, of course, there was always an undercurrent of disappointment with your father. I think he really enjoyed himself on this last visit. You must never forget, Patrick, that he was very proud of you. I’m sure you know that. Really proud.’

Patrick felt sick.

Ballantine looked bored, as people do when someone they don’t know is being discussed. He had a very natural desire to talk about himself, but felt that a little pause was in order.

‘Yes,’ said George to the waiter. ‘We’d like two Bullshots and . . .’ He leaned enquiringly towards Ballantine.

‘I’ll have another martini,’ said Ballantine. There was a short silence.

‘What a lot of faithful gundogs,’ said Patrick wearily, glancing around the room.

‘I suppose a lot of the members are keen shots,’ said George. ‘Ballantine is one of the best shots in the world.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ protested Ballantine, ‘used to be the best shot in the world.’ He held out his hand to arrest the flow of self-congratulation, but was no more effective than King Canute in the face of another great force of nature. ‘What I haven’t lost,’ he couldn’t help pointing out, ‘is a gun collection which is probably the greatest in the world.’

The waiter returned with the drinks.

‘Would you bring me the book called The Morgan Gun Collection?’ Ballantine asked him.

‘Yes, Mr Morgan,’ said the waiter in a voice that suggested he had dealt with this request before.

Patrick tasted the Bullshot and found himself smiling irresistibly. He drank half of it in one gulp, put it down for a moment, picked it up again, and said to George, ‘You were right about these Bullshots,’ drinking the rest.

‘Would you like another one?’ asked George.

‘I think I will, they’re so delicious.’