“He’s working on his book, darling. It’s more than my life’s worth to disturb him. He’s got a deadline of May first.”

“Would you ask him? Would you ask him if I could see him tomorrow or Tuesday?”

Selina said she could try. She didn’t know if I could be made to understand this but Max was peculiar about this sort of thing. He liked to arrange his own appointments. In other words, he didn’t care for people wanting to see him. It was for him to want to see them.

“I’m sure he’ll see you. In his own time. I mean, only the other day he was saying he must have a talk with Clodagh, wasn’t he?” She had begun one of those dialogues with herself. “I must have another chat with Clodagh, he said. Those were his words. Something like that, anyway. I must get Clodagh up here and see how she’s getting on. So he’ll be sure to send for you. I’ll be amazed if he doesn’t after what he said. It’s just a matter of time.”

All right, I said, but would she ask him just the same? It was important. I really needed to see him. Downstairs again, I played the wardrobe bells. After a lot of practice I’d learned how to make different music according to which parts of the doors or sides I slammed my hand against. Mabel came in through the window. I picked her up and cuddled her and told her I didn’t think Max would send for me, or not for weeks. Selina’s passing on my request would very likely annoy him and he’d keep me waiting. I was right. I heard no further word about a meeting with Max.

Since then I’ve often thought about how different my life might have been—like Guy, I’m something of a “might have been” and “if only” person—if he had agreed to see me, if he had sent me a note or a verbal message via Selina. I’d have gone up those stairs to the top but, this time, I’d have knocked on the door. Max would have said, “Come!” He was the kind of person who talked like that. When I went in he’d have been sitting at his desk, he wouldn’t have looked up but kept me waiting for, say, two minutes, while I contemplated the quantities of paper in which, by then, the room might have been ankle-deep. I imagined him turning round at last, sniffing the air and asking if I’d been smoking, and perhaps saying, like a doctor, “What seems to be the trouble?”