‘Thank you very much, but—’

‘Oh, I say, you must come. We only live just across the road, at Judge Court.’

‘The Judge’s House?’

‘Is that what they used to call it? Coo! it’s a queer old place, isn’t it? My aunt likes it, but I’d sooner be in one of those topping new places in St. John’s Wood.’

I’m sure you would, she thought, bored at the idea of the cocktails but wishing very much to see the inside of The Judge’s House.

Her wish won; she told him that she would come at nine o’clock if she could get Francis; Harry would be playing, of course.

He said hospitably that Harry must drop in after the show. He and Belinha never went to bed early.

I seem to be the only person in London who ever wants to, thought Sophia, going slowly down the hill when these arrangements were made.

Harry and Francis were at home. Harry was sitting at the table working out with pencil and paper how many glasses of alcohol each guest could count upon at the next party if one bottle of gin, one of whisky and two each of sherry and port were provided. Francis was, as usual, in the bath.

Sophia felt disillusioned. The cottage looked shabby; the parquet ill-polished, the flowers faded, the furniture too worn for comfort. No shabbiness could destroy the cheerful charm of the little house, but it was undoubtedly beginning to look very battered.

‘Hullo darling.’

‘Hullo. Do you remember a boy named Juan Morales? He says he remembers you. He was at Handall’s.’

‘Oh yes. A bit of an ass but quite decent. An enthusiastic sort of chap, very young for his age. How did you come across him?’

‘Nearly had a fight with him on the Heath, months ago. He was setting his dog on the ducks. I met him just now, on the Mile, and he spoke to me. He wants us to go in for cocktails tonight about nine. They’re living in The Judge’s House. You can come on after the show, he says.’

‘All right, I will. Very friendly, was he?’

‘Was he not! I shouldn’t think he’s got a friend in the world.’

‘He was always like that. They’re Argentinians and very rich. The chaps used to rag him frightfully. He never minded. He’s an ass, but not bad.’

Sophia, climbing wearily to her bedroom, called down to him:

‘He’s got a sister, too.’

‘Ah-ha! What like?’

‘About the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.’

Harry thought so too when he walked into the drawing room of the Morales’ flat at twelve that night.

The white room was full of smoke and the noise of dance music. Sophia, in her best black, was sitting in a squat chair covered with white vellum, looking glum and sleepy and listening to Juan telling her of some dull experience in the Argentine, whence he had just returned.

Belinha, in a silver dress with a red rose stuck in her breast, was dancing lazily with Francis. She was a little girl with smooth black hair and large blue eyes. She was groomed so exquisitely that she did not look real.