Still Tom had waited, leisurely in his confidence that they would be together in the end. As well as knowing what he wanted, Tom was secure in a long history of getting it. He cursed himself now for overconfidence. He had let Helen drift away to Venice, and she had come back engaged. And he knew that for Helen, a promise was not made to be broken. It was one of the reasons that he loved her now.

And yet, he would have to try to make her do it. Have to, because he was irrevocably in love with her now. More, he was convinced that she loved him. The implications of that, for Darcy more than himself, darkened his face.

Tom was at the gateway with its tangle of bicycles where he had led Helen to rescue Oliver, and the play. Beyond was Canterbury Quad, mellow and majestic. A stone urn filled with marigolds was a shock of colour, hummed over by bees. Soothed by the lazy buzz, Tom glanced up and saw that the curtains at Oliver’s tall windows were closed. At once his frown deepened and he was taking the stairs two at a time.

‘Oliver?’

The outer door was open and the inner swung to his touch. Tom breathed in hard and then looked around. In the darkened room he saw Oliver’s blond head, and then the blue flicker of the television. Bogart’s profile filled the screen, then Oliver peered round at him.

‘Hart. Thanks for coming.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Why doesn’t there seem to be anything to do but watch old movies? Where has everyone gone?’

Tom moved to pull back the curtains and light flooded in.

‘You don’t have to do it in the dark.’

‘Suits my mood better these days. I’m glad you’re here. I was beginning to feel just a touch lonely.’ It was a rare admission for Oliver and they looked soberly at each other.

‘Done any work?’ Tom was direct.

‘None.’

‘And are you going to sit the papers?’

Oliver shrugged elaborately. ‘It won’t make the smallest difference. So. What shall we do?’

Tom had picked up the whisky bottle from the tray and he poured hefty measures into two glasses.

‘I think we should have a last evening.’

Oliver stared with dislike at the whisky in his glass, then drained it in a single gulp.

‘Last?’

‘Yes.’ Tom turned abruptly to the window. ‘I don’t think anything is going to be the same, any more. Whichever way it goes.’

Oliver put down his glass.

‘We’d better make it a good one, then.’ There was a flare of his old high spirits. ‘Lead on.’