It was obvious from the moment of her arrival that Pansy would be a big success at Montcalm. When she walked into the drawing room, she was met by the same little silence that greeted her everywhere. Then Lord Montcalm took both her hands in his and led her across to be introduced to her hostess. Lady Montcalm made room for her beside her on the sofa and Lord Montcalm’s friends elbowed each other over the tea things for the privilege of handing her her cup. Oliver’s eyes followed her movements with a kind of bemused pride. And in Tom’s face, just for an instant, there was a flash of pure jealousy that was replaced almost at once by his habitual air of ironic detachment.

Helen sat quietly in her corner, not minding being overlooked in this company where she felt unable to think of the right things to say.

Pansy was perfectly poised. She was telling them about her Christmas in Masefield’s entourage at Gstaad. Even Lady Montcalm’s china face split into a smile.

I don’t envy her for what she’s got, Helen thought. Not the Rolls, or the furs, or her lovely face. Or even Oliver, really, however much I still long for him myself. But I am jealous of her for what she is. She’s so natural, and funny, and warm, that it’s impossible not to like her. She just goes on being herself. She’d be just as much at home in our front room at home with Mum and Graham, and they’d like her just as much as these people do.

That’s what makes me jealous of her. Why can’t I be like that? What makes me sit here, stupid and silent and resentful?

Then Tom strolled over to her and took her cup out of her hand.

‘You look kind of sour,’ he murmured. ‘Is anything wrong, apart from the obvious?’

Helen flushed uncomfortably.

‘Nothing at all,’ she told him with defiance.

For the rest of the day Helen felt more as if she was walking through a film of a country house party than real life.

The guests soon drifted away from the fireside to change for dinner. Helen, in her plain knitted dress, came down with Pansy who was wearing a black velvet St Laurent smoking jacket. She had brushed her silver-gilt hair flat to her head so that she looked like a wicked boy. The eyes of the three older men fastened on her greedily as soon as she walked in.