Since there seemed to be nothing else to talk about Troy hurriedly asked Dr Natouche if he had come by the London train. He said he had driven up from Liverpool, added a few generalities, gave her a smile and a slight inclination of his head, returned to the river and walked for some little distance along the wharves.

‘Innit marvellous?’ Mr Pollock asked of nobody in particular. ‘They don’t tell you so you can’t complain.’

‘They?’ wondered Miss Rickerby-Carrick. ‘Tell you? I don’t understand?’

‘When you book in.’ He jerked his head towards Dr Natouche. ‘What to expect.’

‘Oh, but you mustn’t!’ she whispered. ‘You mustn’t feel like that. Truly.’

‘Meant to be class, this carry-on? Right? That’s what they tell you. Right? First class. Luxury accommodation. Not my idea of it. Not with that type of company. If I’d known one of that lot was included I wouldn’t have come at it. Straight, I wouldn’t.’

‘How very odd of you,’ said Mr Bard lightly.

‘That’s your opinion,’ Mr Pollock angrily rejoined. He turned towards Troy, hoping perhaps for an ally. ‘I reckon it’s an insult to the ladies,’ he said.

‘Oh, go along with you,’ Troy returned as good-naturedly as she could manage, ‘it’s nothing of the sort. Is it, Miss Rickerby-Carrick?’

‘Oh no. No. Indeed, no.’

‘I know what I’m talking about,’ Mr Pollock loudly asserted. Troy looked nervously at the distant figure on the riverage. ‘I own property. Once that sort settles in a district—look—it’s a slum. Easy as that.’

‘Mr Pollock, this man is a doctor,’ Troy said.

‘You’re joking? Doctor? Of what?’

‘Of medicine,’ Mr Bard said. ‘You should consult your passenger list, my dear fellow. He’s an MD.’

‘You can tell people you’re anything,’ Mr Pollock darkly declared. ‘Anything. I could tell them I was a bloody earl. Pardon the French, I’m sure.’ He glared at Troy who was giggling. The shadow of a grin crept into his expression. ‘Not that they’d credit it,’ he added. ‘But still.’

The young man on the motorcycle sounded a derisive call on his siren. ‘Taa t’—ta ta ta. Ta-Taa.’ He and his girlfriend were looking towards the bend in the river.

A rivercraft had come into view. She was painted a dazzling white. A scarlet and green houseflag was mounted at her bows and the red ensign at her stern. Sunlight splashed her brass-work, red curtains glowed behind her saloon windows. As she drew towards her moorings her name could be seen, painted in gold letters along her bows.

M.V. Zodiac.

The clock in a church tower above the river struck twelve.

‘Here she is,’ Mr Bard said. ‘Dead on time.’

III