‘My dear Lord Robert, how many of these people will know what they are listening to, or even listen? Not one in fifty.’

‘Oh, come now!’

‘Not one in fifty! There goes that fellow Withers whose aesthetic appreciation is less than that of a monkey on a barrel-organ. What’s he here for? I repeat, not one in fifty of these humbugs knows what he’s listening to. And how many of the forty-nine have the courage to confess themselves honest philistines?’

‘Quite a number, I should have thought,’ said Lord Robert cheerfully. ‘Myself for one. I’m inclined to go to sleep.’

‘Now, why say that? You know perfectly well—What’s the matter?’

‘Sorry. I was looking at Evelyn Carrados. She looks damn seedy,’ said Lord Robert. Davidson followed his glance to where Lady Carrados sat beside Lady Alleyn. Davidson watched her for a moment and then said quietly:

‘Yes. She’s overdoing it. I shall have to scold her. My seat is somewhere over there, I believe.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘They all overdo it, these mothers, and the girls overdo it, and the husbands get rattled and the young men neglect their work and then there are half a dozen smart weddings, as many nervous breakdowns and there’s your London season.’

‘Lor’!’ said Lord Robert mildly.

‘It’s the truth. In my job one sees it over and over again. Yes, yes, yes, I know! I am a smart West End doctor and I encourage all these women to fancy themselves ill. That’s what you may very well think, but I assure you, my dear Lord Robert, that one sees cases of nervous exhaustion that are enough to make a cynic of the youngest ingénue. And they are so charming, these mamas. I mean really charming. Women like Lady Carrados. They help each other so much. It is not all a cutlet for a cutlet. But’—he spread out his hands—‘what is it for? What is it all about? The same people meeting each other over and over again at great expense to the accompaniment of loud noises of jazz bands. For what?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said Lord Robert cheerfully. ‘Who’s that feller who came in behind Withers? Tall, dark feller with the extraordinary hands. I seem to know him.’

‘Where? Ah.’ Davidson picked up his glasses, which he wore on a wide black ribbon. ‘Who is it, now! I’ll tell you who it is. It’s the catering fellow, Dimitri. He’s having his three guineas’ worth of Bach with the haute monde and, by God, I’ll wager you anything you like that he’s got more appreciation in his extraordinary little finger—you are very observant, it is an odd hand—than most of them have in the whole of their pampered carcasses. How do you do, Mrs Halcut-Hackett?’