‘Dear Bunchy,’ murmured Lady Alleyn. Their eyes met and they exchanged smiles. The cocktail-party surged politely about them. The noise, the smoke, the festive smell of flowers and alcohol, seemed to increase every moment. Wandering parents eddied round Lady Alleyn’s chair. Lord Robert remained beside her listening with pleasure to her cool light voice and looking out of the corner of his eye at Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Apparently all the guests had arrived. She was moving into the room. This was his chance. He turned round and suddenly found himself face to face with Captain Withers. For a moment they stood and looked at each other. Withers was a tall man and Lord Robert was obliged to tilt his head back a little. Withers was a fine arrogant figure, Lord Robert a plump and comical one. But oddly enough it was Lord Robert who seemed the more dominant and more dignified of these two men and before his mild glare the other suddenly looked furtive. His coarse, handsome face became quite white. Some seconds elapsed before he spoke.

‘Oh—ah—how do you do?’ said Captain Withers very heartily.

‘Good evening,’ said Lord Robert and turned back to Lady Alleyn. Captain Withers walked quickly away.

‘Why, Bunchy,’ said Lady Alleyn softly, ‘I’ve never seen you snub anybody before.’

‘D’you know who that was?

‘No.’

‘Feller called Maurice Withers. He’s a throw-back to my Foreign Office days.’

‘He’s frightened of you.’

‘I hope so,’ said Lord Robert. ‘I’ll trot along and pay my respects to my hostess. It’s been charming seeing you. Will you dine with me one evening? Bring Roderick. Can you give me an evening? Now?’

‘I’m so busy with Sarah. May we ring you up? If it can be managed—’

‘It must be. Au ’voir, m’dear.’

‘Good-bye, Bunchy.’

He made his little bow and picked his way through the crowd to Mrs Halcut-Hackett.

‘I’m on my way out,’ he said, ‘but I hoped to get a word with you. Perfectly splendid party.’

She turned all the headlights of her social manner full on him. It was, he decided compassionately, a bogus manner. An imitation, but what a good imitation. She called him ‘dear Lord Robert’ like a grande dame in a slightly dated comedy. Her American voice, which he remembered thinking charming in her theatrical days, was now much disciplined and none the better for it. She asked him if he was doing the season very thoroughly and he replied with his usual twinkle that he got about a bit.

‘Are you going to the show at the Constance Street Rooms on Thursday afternoon?’ he asked. ‘I’m looking forward to that awfully.’

Her eyes went blank but she scarcely paused before answering yes, she believed she was.

‘It’s the Sirmione Quartette,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Awfully good, ain’t they? Real top-notchers.’

Mrs Halcut-Hackett said she adored music, especially classical music.

‘Well,’ said Lord Robert, ‘I’ll give myself the pleasure of looking out for you there if it wouldn’t bore you. Not so many people nowadays enjoy Bach.’