The orchestra was in place; the audience quietened and applause greeted the entry of the conductor, Adrian Boult. After an opening overture and commensurate clapping, a dark-haired, slender figure in a red dress made her way onto the stage with him. While the concerto’s first bars sounded, Ulli sought a closer look at Jelly d’Arányi. He’d retained, from years ago, a faint impression of a light shimmering through the throng like a will o’ the wisp.

Her image filled two rounds as he peered through his opera glasses: just as he remembered, all scarlet gown, dark hair and rather dusky skin, her eyes kindling the flame he recalled. And when she began to play she seemed more spirit than body. She moved not like a normal musician, but like a dancer, with her entire being. He imagined that when she spoke to him eventually, he might hear not her human voice but the Bergonzi’s emanating from her delicate throat. So this was what had captivated all those composers. This solitary woman had sparked into existence a whole new repertoire of violin pieces. Something exceptional had to lie behind that.

The concerto didn’t sound much like genuine Mozart. The harmonies were in no way radical or sensual enough; the melodies were unmemorable. And though Jelly d’Arányi was giving it all the energy she would have devoted to Ravel’s Tzigane, somehow it was not… well, what wasn’t it? What was the matter? Perhaps she was having an off night. Not that her devoted audience would know – but to a trained ear that heard music every day, year round, the fact that not all was well could not go entirely unnoticed.

‘She sounds a little tired?’ he ventured at the end, while Jelly took curtain call after curtain call; her public, no doubt, still saw the lithe, Gypsyish girl they had always loved.

‘She’s had a difficult year,’ was all Tovey said. ‘Let’s go and see her.’