‘Yes and no, thank you,’ said Emily. ‘It’s a wonderful play. I can’t get over my luck, being in it. And I can’t get over The Dolphin either.’

‘I thought you looked as if you were quite enjoying it. You read Joan exactly right. One wants to feel it’s a pity she’s Will’s sister because she’s the only kind of woman who would ever suit him as a wife.’

‘I think before they were both married she probably let him in by the side-window when he came home to Henley Street in the early hours after a night on the tiles.’

‘Yes, of course she did. How right you are. Do you like cocktail parties?’

‘Not really, but I always hope I will.’

‘I’ve given that up, even.’

‘Do you know, when I was playing at The Mermaid over a year ago, I used to look across the river to The Dolphin and then, one day, I walked over Blackfriars Bridge and stood in Wharfingers Lane and stared at it. And then an old, old stagehand I knew told me his father had been on the curtain there in the days of Adolphus Ruby. I got a sort of thing about it. I found a book in a sixpenny rack called The Buskin and the Boards. It was published in 1860 and it’s all about contemporary theatres and actors. Terribly badly written, you know, but there are some good pictures and The Dolphin’s one of the best.’

‘Do let me see it.’

‘Of course.’

‘I had a thing about The Dolphin, too. What a pity we didn’t meet in Wharfingers Lane,’ said Peregrine. ‘Do you like Jeremy’s models? Let’s go and look at them.’

They were placed about the foyer and were tactfully lit. Jeremy had been very intelligent: the sets made single uncomplicated gestures and were light and strong-looking and beautifully balanced. Peregrine and Emily had examined them at some length when it came to him that he should be moving among the guests. Emily seemed to be visited by the same notion. She said: ‘I think Marcus Knight is wanting to catch your eye. He looks a bit portentous to me.’

‘Gosh! So he does. Thank you.’

As he edged through the party towards Marcus Knight, Peregrine thought: ‘That’s a pleasing girl.’

Knight received him with an air that seemed to be compounded of graciousness and overtones of huff. He was the centre of a group: Winter Morris, Mrs Greenslade, who acted as hostess and was beautifully dressed and excessively poised, Destiny Meade and one of the personages who wore an expansive air of having acquired her.