Miss Orrincourt moved to the fire and laid one arm along the mantelpiece. ‘I hope Noddy’s not going to be late,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’ She looked critically at her crimson nails and touched the diamond star. ‘I’d like a drink,’ she said.

Nobody made any response to this statement, though Paul uncomfortably cleared his throat. The tap of a stick sounded in the hall.

‘Here is Papa,’ said Pauline nervously, and they all moved slightly. Really, thought Troy, they might be waiting to dine with some minor royalty. There was precisely the same air of wary expectation.

Barker opened the door, and the original of all the photographs walked slowly into the room, followed by the white cat.

The first thing to be said about Sir Henry Ancred was that he filled his role with almost embarrassing virtuosity. He was unbelievably handsome. His hair was silver, his eyes, under heavy brows, were fiercely blue. His nose was ducal in its prominence. Beneath it sprouted a fine snowy moustache, brushed up to lend accent to his actor’s mouth. His chin jutted out squarely and was adorned with an ambassadorial tuft. He looked as if he had been specially designed for exhibition. He wore a velvet dinner-jacket, an old-fashioned collar, a wide cravat and a monocle on a broad ribbon. You could hardly believe, Troy thought, that he was true. He came in slowly, using a black and silver stick, but not leaning on it overmuch. It was, Troy felt, more of an adjunct than an aid. He was exceeding tall and still upright.

‘Mrs Alleyn, Papa,’ said Pauline.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Henry.

Troy went to meet him. ‘Restraining myself,’ as she afterwards told Alleyn, ‘from curtsying, but with difficulty.’

‘So this is our distinguished painter?’ said Sir Henry, taking her hand. ‘I am delighted.’

He kept her hand in his and looked down at her. Behind him, Troy saw in fancy a young Henry Ancred bending his gaze upon the women in his heyday and imagined how pleasurably they must have melted before it. ‘Delighted,’ he repeated, and his voice underlined adroitly his pleasure not only in her arrival but in her looks. ‘Hold your horses, chaps,’ thought Troy and removed her hand. ‘I hope you continue of that mind,’ she said politely.

Sir Henry bowed. ‘I believe I shall,’ he said. ‘I believe I shall.’ She was to learn that he had a habit of repeating himself.

Paul had moved a chair forward. Sir Henry sat in it facing the fire, with the guest and family disposed in arcs on either side of him.

He crossed his knees and rested his left forearm along the arm of his chair, letting his beautifully kept hand dangle elegantly. It was a sort of Charles II pose, and, in lieu of the traditional spaniel, the white cat leapt gracefully on his lap, kneaded it briefly and reclined there.