‘Piss off,’ said Dave good-humouredly. ‘She’s mine now, and I’ll do my own political introductions. Go and talk to Puffett about the building fund,’ he turned to Chloe with a grin, ‘while your beautiful guest and I discuss life, love and literature. Steve likes to have his little joke because ten years ago he was a Marxist, and he feels bad now because he’s sold out.’

Has he? Chloe wondered. When did the cool, cynical don take over from the young idealist? She wanted to know Stephen better, much better, she told herself. They sat down and Chloe asked wickedly, ‘How do you manage to be a Marxist and still sit up here surrounded by all this, eating off this?’ She tapped her gold plate until it rang, the very sound of privilege.

Dave laughed merrily. ‘Terrible, isn’t it? They only bring the best stuff out in secret up here in case the poor deprived masses of undergraduates see it and decide to rush the defences. Have the trifle, by the way. It’s wonderful.’

The trifle was wonderful, a perfect concoction of cream and fruit and nuts, accompanied by a fine white bordeaux.

‘No,’ Dave was saying mock-seriously. ‘I reckon I can change things best from the inside. See that everyone gets gold plate to eat off as soon as possible. Port, madam? Do have it, then it’ll give me the chance to pass it round the wrong way. It throws them all into such a fury I can’t resist doing it. Any more than I can seriously resist all this booze and grub. I put this on,’ he tugged at his shred of a tie, ‘come in from Cowley on the bike, and enjoy it for what it is – one of life’s bizarre little anachronisms. It won’t be going on for much longer anyhow,’ he added darkly. ‘Don’t miss the petits fours, whatever you do. Chef’s a celebrated confiseur.’

Now Chloe’s other neighbour was claiming her attention. Warmed and mellowed by the wine and port, she embarked on a spirited argument about the economics of advertising.

The economist flirted outrageously. He watched her mouth and eyes as she talked, leaning forward occasionally to fill her glass or to take the silver nutcrackers from her fingers to crack the kernel out of its shell for her. ‘You’re very lovely,’ he told her seriously, ‘and you talk such beautiful nonsense.’

‘Not nonsense,’ she responded, indignantly. ‘I know my business.’

The economist laughed and put his hand over hers. ‘Don’t talk about business. Tell me about you.’

From the opposite arm of the horseshoe, Stephen winked at her.

When the port had made its last circuit and the last crumb of Stilton and sweetmeat had been eaten, Puffett stood up again. His face was deep crimson and he swayed very slightly as he delivered the Latin benediction that marked the formal end of the evening.