The irresistible force in Richard’s case had undoubtedly been Mary Bellamy. The end-product, after twenty-seven years of the treatment, was two successful West End comedies, a third in the bag, and (his hand tightened on his dispatch-case) a serious play.

He owed it all, as he had so repeatedly told her, to Mary. Well, perhaps not quite all. Not the serious play.

He had almost completed his round of the little Place and, not wanting to pass the shop window, turned back. Why in the world had he gone grand and huffy when Anelida refused to meet Mary? And why did she refuse? Any other girl in Anelida’s boots, he thought uneasily, would have jumped at that sort of invitation: the great Mary Bellamy’s birthday party. A tiny, hand-picked group from the topmost drawer in the London theatre. The Management. The producer. Any other girl … He fetched up short, not liking himself very much, conscious that if he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion he would arrive at an uncomfortable position. What sort of man, he would have to ask himself, was Richard Dakers? Reality would disintegrate and he would find himself face-to-face with a stranger. It was a familiar experience and one he didn’t enjoy. He shook himself free of it, made a sudden decision, walked quickly to the house and rang the bell.

Charles Templeton breakfasted in his study on the ground floor. The door was open and Richard saw him there, reading his Times, at home among his six so judiciously chosen pieces of chinoiserie, his three admirable pictures, his few distinguished chairs and lovely desk. Charles was fastidious about his surroundings and extremely knowledgeable. He could wait, sometimes for years, for the acquisition of a single treasure.

Richard went in. ‘Charles!‘ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Hallo, old boy. Come to make your devotions?’

‘Am I the first?’

‘The first in person. There are the usual massive offerings in kind. Mary’ll be delighted to see you.’

‘I’ll go up,’ Richard said, but still hovered. Charles lowered his newspaper. How often, Richard wondered, had he seen him make that gesture, dropping his eyeglass and vaguely smiling. Richard, still involved in the aftermath of his moment of truth, if that was its real nature, asked himself what he knew of Charles. How used he was to that even courtesy, that disengagement! What of Charles in other places? What of the reputedly implacable man of affairs who had built his own fortune? Or of the lover Charles must have been five-and-twenty years ago? Impossible to imagine, Richard thought, looking vaguely at an empty niche in the wall.

He said: ‘Hallo! Where’s the T’ang Musician?’

‘Gone,’ Charles said.

‘Gone! Where? Not broken?’

‘Chipped. The peg of her lute. Gracefield did it, I think. I’ve given her to Maurice Warrender.’

‘But – even so – I mean, so often they’re not absolutely perfect and you – it was your treasure.’