‘And I hope you’ll all play again for I found it a great entertainment. Are you a dart player too, Mr Watchman?’

‘I try,’ said Watchman.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

‘Here is Decima,’ said Cubitt.

IV

A tall young woman came into the room and stood, very much at her ease, screwing her eyes up a little in the glare of the lights.

‘I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ said Decima Moor. ‘Goodevening, every one.’

They all greeted her. There was a second’s pause and then Watchman moved into the centre of the room.

‘Good-evening,’ said Watchman.

She faced him and met his gaze.

‘So you have arrived,’ she said. ‘Good-evening.’

She touched his outstretched hand, walked over to the bar, and settled herself on one of the tall stools. She wore a fisherman’s jersey and dark blue slacks. Her hair was cut like a poet’s of the romantic period and was moulded in short locks about her head and face. She was good-looking with a classic regularity of beauty that was given an individual quirk by the blackness of her brows and the singular intensity of her eyes. She moved with the kind of grace that only just escapes angularity. She was twenty-four years of age.

If an observant stranger had been at the Feathers that evening, he might have noticed that on Decima’s entrance the demeanour of most of the men changed. For Decima owned that quality which Hollywood has loudly defined for the world. She owned a measure of attraction over which she herself had little governance. Though she must have been aware of this, she seemed unaware, and neither in her manner nor in her speech did she appear to exercise conscious charm. Yet from the moment of her entrance the men when they spoke to each other, looked at her, and in each of them was the disturbance of Decima’s attraction reflected. Watchman’s eyes brightened, he became more alert, and he spoke a little louder. Parish expanded as if in a spotlight and he exuded gallantry. Cubitt’s air of vague amiability contracted to a sharp awareness. Abel Pomeroy beamed upon Decima. Will, still flushed from his passage with Watchman, turned a deeper red. He answered her greeting awkwardly and was very much the solemn and self-conscious rustic.

Decima took a cigarette from Parish and looked round the taproom.

‘Has the dart game begun?’ she asked.

‘We’re waiting for you, my angel,’ said Parish. ‘What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

‘Washing. I’ve attended a poison party. I hope you didn’t spill prussic acid about the garage, you two Pomeroys.’

‘You’re not ‘feared, too, are you Miss Dessy?’ asked Abel. ‘A fine, bold, learned, female like you.’

Decima laughed.

‘A revolting picture,’ she said. ‘What do you think Will?’