‘Not now,’ Charles said. ‘I’m a perfectionist, you know.’

‘That’s what you say!’ Richard exclaimed warmly. ‘But I bet it was because Maurice always coveted her. You’re so absurdly generous.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ Charles said, and looked at his paper. Richard hesitated. He heard himself say:

‘Charles, do I ever say thank you? To you and Mary?’

‘My dear fellow, what for?’

‘For everything.’ He took refuge in irony. ‘For befriending the poor orphan boy, you know, among other things.’

‘I sincerely hope you’re not making a vicarious birthday resolution.’

‘It just struck me.’

Charles waited for a moment and then said: ‘You’ve given us a tremendous interest and very much pleasure.’ He again hesitated as if assembling his next sentence. ‘Mary and I,’ he said at last, ‘look upon you as an achievement. And now, do go and make your pretty speeches to her.’

‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘I’d better, hadn’t I? See you later.’

Charles raised his newspaper and Richard went slowly upstairs, wishing, consciously, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he was not going to visit Miss Bellamy.

She was in her room, dressed and enthroned among her presents. He slipped into another gear as he took her to his heart in a birthday embrace and then held her at arm’s length to tell her how lovely she looked.

‘Darling, darling, darling!’ she cried joyously. ‘How perfect of you to come. I’ve been hoping and hoping!’

It occurred to him that it would have been strange indeed if he hadn’t performed this time-honoured observance, but he kissed her again and gave her his present.

It was early in the day and her reservoir of enthusiasm scarcely tapped. She was able to pour a freshet of praise over his tinsel picture and did so with many cries of gratitude and wonder. Where, she asked, where, where had he discovered the one, the perfect present?

It was an opening Richard had hoped for, but he found himself a little apprehensive nevertheless.

‘I found it,’ he said, ‘at the Pegasus – or rather Octavius Browne found it for me. He says it’s rareish.’

Her triangular smile didn’t fade. Her eyes continued to beam into his, her hands to press his hands.

‘Ah, yes!’ she cried gaily. ‘The old man in the bookshop! Believe it or not, darling, he sent me a telegram about my conception. Too sweet, but a little difficult to acknowledge.’

‘He’s very donnish,’ Richard said. She made a comic face at him. ‘He was, in fact, a don, but he found himself out of sympathy with angry young men and set up a bookshop instead.’

She propped up her tinsel picture on the dressing-table and gazed at it through half-closed eyes. ‘Isn’t there a daughter or something? I seem to have heard –’

‘A niece,’ Richard said. Maddeningly, his mouth had gone dry.