They were spared the necessity of reply by the entrance of Mr Lazenby himself.

In a way, Troy felt, it was something of an anti-climax. Mr Lazenby was a clergyman.

It was also a surprise. One did not, somehow, associate the clergy, except in the upper reaches of their hierarchy, with expensive cars and uniformed chauffeurs. Mr Lazenby gave out no particular air of affluence. He was tall, rather pink and thinly crested and he wore dark glasses, an immaculate clerical grey suit, a blue pullover and the regulation dog-collar.

Mrs Tretheway from behind the bar, where to Troy’s fancy, she had become a kind of oracle, pronounced his name and added sensibly that he would no doubt find out in due course who everybody was.

‘Surely, surely,’ said Mr Lazenby in a slightly antipodean, faintly parsonic voice.

‘But,’ cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick, ‘it doesn’t say in the passenger list. It doesn’t say Rev…Now, why is that?’

‘I expect,’ said Mr Lazenby who was helping himself to luncheon, ‘it was because I applied for my reservation by letter. From Melbourne. I didn’t, I think, declare my cloth.’

He smiled at her, composed himself, bent his head for a moment, scratched a miniature cross on his jumper and sat down by Mr Pollock. ‘This looks delicious,’ he said.

‘Very tasty,’ said Mr Pollock woodenly and helped himself to pickles.

Luncheon went forward in little desultory gusts of conversation. Items of information were exchanged. The Hewsons had come up from the Tabard Inn at Stratford-upon-Avon where on Saturday night they had seen a performance of Macbeth which they had thought peculiar. Mr Lazenby had been staying with the Bishop of Norminster. Mr Pollock had caught the London train in Birmingham where he had lodged at the Osborn Hotel. Dr Natouche and Miss Rickerby-Carrick had come from their respective homes. Miss Hewson guessed that she and her brother were not the only non-Britishers aboard, addressing her remark to Mr Lazenby but angling, Troy thought, for a reaction from Dr Natouche who did not, however, respond. Mr Lazenby expounded to the Hewsons on Australia and the Commonwealth. He also turned slightly towards Dr Natouche though it was impossible to see, so dark were his spectacles, whether he really looked at him.

‘Well, now,’ Miss Hewson said, ‘I just don’t get this Commonwealth. It’s the British Commonwealth but you’re not a Britisher and you got the British Queen but you don’t go around saying you’re a monarchy. I guess the distinctions are too refined for my crass American appreciation. What do you say, dear?’ she asked Mr Hewson.

‘Pardon me, dear?’

Miss Hewson articulated carefully into her brother’s hearing-aid and he began to look honest-to-God and dryly humorous.