‘I’m terrified of driving at this time of the evening,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t seem anyone left at home who can drive a car. Sebastian and I are practically camping out here. I hope you haven’t come expecting a pompous party.’ She leaned forward to the locker for a box of cigarettes.

‘No thanks.’

‘Light one for me, will you?’

It was the first time in my life that anyone had asked this of me, and as I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers, I caught a thin bat’s squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.

‘Thanks. You’ve been here before. Nanny reported it. We both thought it very odd of you not to stay to tea with me.’

‘That was Sebastian.’

‘You seem to let him boss you about a good deal. You shouldn’t. It’s very bad for him.’

We had turned the corner of the drive now; the colour had died in the woods and sky, and the house seemed painted in grisaille, save for the central golden square at the open doors. A man was waiting to take my luggage.

‘Here we are.’

She led me up the steps and into the hall, flung her coat on a marble table, and stooped to fondle a dog which came to greet her. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Sebastian to have started dinner.’

At that moment he appeared between the pillars at the further end, propelling himself in a wheel-chair. He was in pyjamas and dressing-gown, with one foot heavily bandaged.

‘Well, darling, I’ve collected your chum,’ she said, again with a barely perceptible note of contempt.

‘I thought you were dying,’ I said, conscious then, as I had been ever since I arrived, of the predominating emotion of vexation, rather than of relief, that I had been bilked of my expectations of a grand tragedy.

‘I thought I was, too. The pain was excruciating. Julia, do you think, if you asked him, Wilcox would give us champagne tonight?’

‘I hate champagne and Mr Ryder has had dinner.’

‘Mister Ryder? Mister Ryder? Charles drinks champagne at all hours. Do you know, seeing this great swaddled foot of mine, I can’t get it out of my mind that I have gout, and that gives me a craving for champagne.’

We dined in a room they called ‘the Painted Parlour’. It was a spacious octagon, later in design than the rest of the house; its walls were adorned with wreathed medallions, and across its dome prim Pompeian figures stood in pastoral groups. They and the satin-wood and ormolu furniture, the carpet, the hanging bronze candelabrum, the mirrors and sconces, were all a single composition, the design of one illustrious hand. ‘We usually eat here when we’re alone’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s so cosy.’

While they dined I ate a peach and told them of the war with my father.

‘He sounds a perfect poppet,’ said Julia. ‘And now I’m going to leave you boys.’

‘Where are you off to?’