Miss Bellamy had not arrived in the conservatory unaccompanied. She had Colonel Warrender in attendance upon her. They had been followed by Charles Templeton, Pinky Cavendish and Bertie Saracen. These three had paused by Gracefield to replenish their glasses and then moved from the dining-room into the conservatory, leaving the door open. Gracefield, continuing his round, was about to follow them. The conglomeration of voices in the rooms behind had mounted to its extremity, but above it, high-pitched, edged with emotion, a single voice rang out: Mary Bellamy’s. There, in the conservatory she was, for all to see. She faced Anelida and leant slightly towards her.

‘No, no, no, my dear. That, really, is not quite good enough.’

A sudden lull, comparable to that which follows the lowering of houselights in a crowded theatre, was broken by the more distant babble in the farther room, and by the inconsequent, hitherto inaudible excursions of the musicians. Heads were turned towards the conservatory. Warrender came to the door. Gracefield found himself moved to one side: Octavius was there, face to face with Warrender. Gantry’s voice said:

‘Mary; this won’t do.’

‘I think,’ Octavius said, ‘if I may, I would like to go to my niece.’

‘Not yet,’ Warrender said. ‘Do you mind? ‘ He shut the door and cut off the voices in the conservatory.

For a moment the picture beyond the glass walls was held. Mary Bellamy’s lips worked. Richard faced her and was speaking. So were Charles and Gantry. It was like a scene from a silent film. Then, with a concerted movement, the figures of Gantry, Charles, Richard and Warrender, their backs to their audience, hid Miss Bellamy and Anelida.

‘Ah, there you are, Occy!’ a jovial, not quite sober voice exclaimed. ‘I was going to ask you, old boy. D’you remember – ?’

It was Octavius’s old acquaintance, Dr Harkness, now rather tight. As if he had given a signal, everybody began to talk again very loudly indeed. Charles broke from the group and came through the glass door, shutting it quickly behind him. He put his hand on Octavius’s arm.

‘It’s all right, Browne, I assure you,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. Dicky is taking care of her. Believe me, it’s all right.’ He turned to Gracefield. ‘Tell them to get on with it,’ he said. ‘At once.’

Gracefield gave his butler’s inclination and moved away.

Octavius said: ‘But all the same, I would prefer to join Anelida.’

Charles looked at him. ‘How would you have liked,’ he said, ‘to have spent the greater part of your life among aliens?’

Octavius blinked. ‘My dear Templeton,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. But if you’ll forgive me I find myself in precisely that situation at the moment and I should still like to go to my niece.’

‘Here she is, now.’