Heartened by the certainty of her dress being satisfactory and her hat becoming, Anelida began to daydream along time-honoured lines. She and Octavius arrived at the party. There was a sudden hush. Monty Marchant, The Management in person, would ejaculate to Timon Gantry, the great producer, ‘Who are they?’ and Timon Gantry, with the abrupt grasp which all actors, whether they had heard it or not, liked to imitate, would reply: ‘I don’t know, but by God, I’m going to find out.’ The ranks would part as she and Octavius, escorted by Miss Bellamy, moved down the room to the accompaniment of a discreet murmur. They would be the cynosure of all eyes. What was a cynosure and why was it never mentioned except in reference to eyes? All eyes on Anelida Lee. And there, rapt in admiration, would be Richard.…

At this point Anelida stopped short, was stricken with shame, had a good laugh at herself and became the prey of her own nerves.

She went to her window and looked down into Pardoner’s Place. Cars were now beginning to draw up at Miss Bellamy’s house. Here came a large black one with a very smart chauffeur. Two men got out. Anelida’s inside somersaulted. The one with the gardenia was Monty Marchant and that incredibly tall, that unmistakably shabby figure was the greatest of all directors, Timon Gantry.

‘Whoops!’ Anelida said. ‘None of your nonsense, Cinderella.’ She counted sixty and then went downstairs.

Octavius was seated at his desk, reading, and Hodge was on his knee. They both looked extraordinarily smug.

‘Have you come over calm?’ Anelida asked.

‘What? Calm? Yes,’ Octavius said. ‘Perfectly, thank you. I have been reading The Gulls Hornbook.’

‘Have you been up to something, Unk?’

He rolled his eyes round at her. ‘Up to something? I? What can you mean?’

‘You look as if butter wouldn’t melt on your whiskers.’

‘Really? I wonder why. Should we go?’

He displaced Hodge, who was moulting. Anelida was obliged to fetch the clothes-brush again.

‘I wouldn’t change you,’ she said, ‘for the Grand Cham of Tartary. Come on, darling, let’s go.’

V

Miss Bellamy’s preparation for the party occupied the best part of ninety minutes and had something of the character of a restoration salon, with Florence, truculently unaware of this distinction, in the role of abigail.