‘Is that it?’ Chloe asked Stephen when he rejoined her at the door.

‘Certainly not. Upstairs again, for brandy, coffee and cigars. Everyone finally lets their hair down, if you relish the spectacle of us old gents doing that. They’ll all be groping madly for you. I think we’ll just have a quick nightcap and then make our adieux before the fights break out.’

He took her arm as they wound up the spiral stairs together.

This evening is like some kind of formal Elizabethan dance, Chloe thought. It starts out very slowly and stately, then gets faster and faster until finally everyone falls over. I shall certainly fall over myself if I have any more to drink.

‘I didn’t catch the economist’s name,’ she whispered to Stephen.

‘Edgar France,’ he told her, and Chloe clapped her hand to her mouth with a horrified giggle. ‘Oh God, not the Edgar France? The world expert, no less. And I was treating him to a lecture on the fundamentals of economics in selling.’

‘I haven’t seen old Edgar enjoying himself so much in months.’

They both laughed delightedly and went on up the ancient stone steps arm in arm.

The setting for the last measure of the dance was a low room whose dormer windows looked out across the leads to the stone crenellations ornamenting the roof edges. When Chloe glanced out, she saw them standing out black and lacy against the dark blue sky.

In this room there were deep leather sofas and armchairs, another huge log fire, and a rich smell of coffee. The fellows were grouped around a loaded tray of drinks, pouring themselves liberal measures of brandy and coffee in thimble-sized cups. Chloe shook her head at Stephen’s offer of brandy.

‘Not if I’m to walk out of here on my own two legs.’

He brought across a cup of coffee and made himself comfortable beside her on her sofa. Dave Walker was hovering nearby but Stephen waved him away.

‘Do you dine like this every night?’ she asked Stephen.

‘Of course not. Think of our poor livers. This is a special guest night, and we only have a few of them a term. Usually I’m at home with Beatrice having a bowl of soup and a sleep in front of the television. Just like everyone else.’ He smiled at her, and Chloe saw the fine wrinkles at the corners of the bright blue eyes.

Lucky Beatrice, Chloe murmured to herself. I’d share my bowl of soup with Stephen any day. Or night.