‘Oh, do you think so?’ asked Thomas, blinking modestly. ‘Oh, no! Clever? Me? Goodness, no. Goodnight. It’s been nice to meet you.’

Katti waited for half an hour before she heard the sound of the returning car. Presently the door opened and Troy came in. She wore a white overcoat. A lock of her short dark hair hung over her forehead. Her hands were jammed in her pockets. She walked self-consciously down the room looking at Katti out of the corners of her eyes.

‘Got rid of your rum friend?’ asked Miss Bostock.

Troy cleared her throat. ‘Yes. He’s talked himself off.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Bostock, after a long silence, ‘when do you leave for Ancreton?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Troy shortly.

CHAPTER TWO

Departure

TROY WISHED THAT Thomas Ancred would say goodbye and leave her to savour the moment of departure. She enjoyed train journeys enormously, and, in these days, not a second of the precious discomfort should be left unrelished. But there stood Thomas on the Euston platform with nothing to say, and filled, no doubt, with the sense of tediousness that is inseparable from these occasions. ‘Why doesn’t he take off his hat and walk away,’ Troy thought fretfully. But when she caught his eye, he gave her such an anxious smile that she instantly felt obliged to reassure him.

‘I have been wondering,’ Thomas said, ‘if, after all, you will merely loathe my family.’

‘In any case I shall be working.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, looking immensely relieved, ‘there is that. I can’t tell you how much I dislike many actors, and yet, when I begin to work with them, sometimes I quite love them. If they do what I tell them, of course.’

‘Are you working this morning?’ And she thought: how unreal the activities seem of people one leaves behind on railway stations.

‘Yes,’ said Thomas, ‘a first rehearsal.’

‘Please don’t wait,’ she said for the fourth time, and for the fourth time he replied: ‘I’ll just see you off,’ and looked at his watch. Doors were slammed farther down the train. Troy leant out of the window. At last she was off. A man in uniform, peering frenziedly into carriage after carriage, was working his way towards her. ‘Nigel!’ Troy shouted. ‘Nigel!’

‘Oh, God, there you are!’ cried Nigel Bathgate. ‘Hallo, Thomas! Here! Troy! I knew I wouldn’t have time to talk so I’ve written.’ He thrust a fat envelope at her. A whistle blew. The train clunked, and Thomas said: ‘Well, goodbye; they will be pleased;’ raised his hat and slid out of view. Nigel walked rapidly along beside the window. ‘What a go! You will laugh,’ he said. ‘Is this a novel?’ Troy asked, holding up the envelope. ‘Almost! You’ll see.’ Nigel broke into a run. ‘I’ve always wanted to—you’ll see—when’s Roderick—?’ ‘Soon!’ Troy cried. ‘In three weeks!’ ‘Goodbye! I can’t run any more.’ He had gone.