‘We don’t know,’ Charles said. ‘She ought to be opening her presents.’

‘She won’t miss her cue, my dear, you may depend upon it. Don’t you feel it’s time?’

‘I’ll find her,’ Charles said. ‘Get them mustered if you can, Gantry, will you?’

Bertie Saracen joined them, flushed and carefree. ‘What goes on?’ he inquired.

‘We’re waiting for Mary.’

‘She went upstairs for running repairs,’ Bertie announced and giggled. ‘I am a poet and don’t I know it!’ he added.

‘Did you see her? ‘ Gantry demanded.

‘I heard her tell Monty. She’s not uttering to poor wee me.’

Monty Marchant edged towards them. ‘Monty, ducky,’ Bertie cried, ‘your speech was too poignantly right. Live for ever! Oh, I’m so tiddly.’

Marchant said: ‘Mary’s powdering her nose, Charles. Should we do a little shepherding?’

‘I thought so.’

Gantry mounted a stool and used his director’s voice: ‘Attention, the cast!’ It was a familiar summons and was followed by an obedient hush. ‘To the table, please, everybody, and clear an entrance. Last act, ladies and gentlemen. Last act, please!’

They did so at once. The table with its heaped array of parcels had already been moved forward by Gracefield and the maids. The guests ranged themselves at both sides like a chorus in grand opera, leaving a passage to the principal door.

Charles said: ‘I’ll just see …’ and went into the hall. He called up the stairs: ‘Oh – Florence! Tell Miss Bellamy we’re ready, will you?‘ and came back. ‘Florence’ll tell her,’ he said.

There was a longish, expectant pause. Gantry drew in his breath with a familiar hiss.

‘I’ll tell her,’ Charles said, and started off for the door.

Before he could reach it they all heard a door slam and running steps on the stairway. There was a relieved murmur and little indulgent laughter.

‘First time Mary’s ever missed an entrance,’ someone said.

The steps ran across the hall. An irregular flutter of clapping broke out and stopped.

A figure appeared in the entrance and paused there.

It was not Mary Bellamy but Florence.

Charles said: ‘Florence! Where’s Miss Mary?’

Florence, breathless, mouthed at him. ‘Not coming.’

‘Oh, God!’ Charles ejaculated. ‘Not now!’

As if to keep the scene relentlessly theatrical, Florence cried out in a shrill voice:

‘A doctor. For Christ’s sake! Quick. Is there a doctor in the house?’

CHAPTER 4

Catastrophe

It might be argued that the difference between high tragedy and melodrama rests in the indisputable fact that the latter is more true to nature. People, even the larger-than-life-people of the theatre, tend at moments of tension to express themselves not in unexpected or memorable phrases but in clichés.