Neither she nor Charles had noticed Florence, listening avidly, a pace or two behind them. She moved away down the hall and a moment later Richard came in by the front door. When he saw Miss Bellamy he stopped short.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I’ve been trying, not very successfully, to apologize to my friends.’

‘They’ve taken themselves off, it appears.’

‘Would you have expected them to stay?’

‘I should have thought them capable of anything.’

He looked at her with a sort of astonishment and said nothing.

‘I’ve got to speak to you,’ she said between her teeth.

‘Have you? I wonder what you can find to say.’

‘Now.’

‘The sooner the better. But shouldn’t you’ – he jerked his head at the sounds beyond the doors – ‘be in there?’

‘Now.’

‘Very well.’

‘Not here.’

‘Wherever you like, Mary.’

‘In my room.’

She had turned to the stairs when a Press photographer, all smiles, emerged from the dining-room.

‘Miss Bellamy, could I have a shot? By the door? With Mr Dakers perhaps? It’s an opportunity. Would you mind?’

For perhaps five seconds, she hesitated. Richard said something under his breath.

‘It’s a bit crowded in there. We’d like to run a full-page spread,’ said the photographer and named his paper.

‘But, of course,’ said Miss Bellamy.

Richard watched her touch her hair and re-do her mouth. Accustomed though he was to her professional technique he was filled with amazement. She put away her compact and turned brilliantly to the photographer. ‘Where?’ she asked.

‘In the entrance, I thought. Meeting Mr Dakers.’

She moved down the hall to the front door. The photographer dodged round her. ‘Not in the full glare,’ she said and placed herself.

‘Mr Dakers? ‘ said the photographer.

‘Isn’t it better as it is? ‘ Richard muttered.

‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ she said with ferocious gaiety. ‘Come along, Dicky.’

‘There’s a new play on the skids, isn’t there? If Mr Dakers could be showing it to you, perhaps? I’ve brought something in case.’

He produced a paper-bound quarto of typescript, opened it and put it in her hands.

‘Just as if you’d come to one of those sure-fire laugh lines,’ the photographer said. ‘Pointing it out to him, you know? Right, Mr Dakers?’

Richard, nauseated, said: ‘I’m photocatastrophic. Leave me out.’

‘No!’ said Miss Bellamy. Richard shook his head.

‘You’re too modest,’ said the photographer. ‘Just a little this way. Grand.’

She pointed to the opened script. ‘And the great big smile,’ he said. The bulb flashed. ‘Wonderful. Thank you,’ and he moved away.

‘And now,’ she said through her teeth, ‘I’ll talk to you.’

Richard followed her upstairs. On the landing they passed Old Ninn, who watched them go into Miss Bellamy’s room. After the door had shut she stood outside and waited.