It was clear to Nicola that Mr Period died to have his portrait done and was prepared to pay highly for it. He mentioned several extremely fashionable artists and then said suddenly: ‘It’s naughty of dear Agatha Troy to be so diffy about who she does. She said something about not wanting to abandon bone for bacon, I think, when she refused – she actually refused to paint –’

Here Mr Period whispered an extremely potent name and stared with a sort of dismal triumph at Nicola. ‘So she wouldn’t dream of poor old me,’ he cried. ‘’Nuff said!’

Nicola began to say: ‘I wonder, though. She often –’ and hurriedly checked herself. She had been about to commit an indiscretion. Fortunately Mr Period’s attention was diverted by the return of Andrew Bantling. He had reappeared in the drive, still walking fast and swinging his bowler, and with a fixed expression on his pleasantly bony face.

‘He has come back,’ Nicola said.

‘Andrew? Oh, good. I wonder what for.’

In a moment they found out. The door opened and Andrew looked in.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said loudly, ‘but if it’s not too trouble-some, I wonder if I could have a word with you, P.P.?’

‘My dear boy! But, of course.’

‘It’s not private from Nicola,’ Andrew said. ‘On the contrary. At the same time, I don’t want to bore anybody.’

Mr Period said playfully: ‘I myself have done nothing but bore poor Nicola. Shall we “withdraw to the withdrawing-room” and leave her in peace?’

‘Oh. All right. Thank you. Sorry.’ Andrew threw a distracted look at Nicola and opened the door.

Mr Period made her a little bow. ‘You will excuse us, my dear?’ he said and they went out.

Nicola worked on steadily and was only once interrupted. The door opened to admit a small, thin, querulous-looking gentleman who ejaculated: ‘I beg your pardon. Damn!’ and went out again. Mr Cartell, no doubt.

At eleven o’clock Alfred came in with sherry and biscuits and Mr Period’s compliments. If she was in any difficulty would she be good enough to ring and Alfred would convey the message. Nicola was not in any difficulty, but while she enjoyed her sherry she found herself scribbling absent-mindedly.

‘Good lord!’ she thought. ‘Why did I do that? A bit longer on this job and I’ll be turning into a Pyke Period myself.’