They were all dancing, and the time was a quarter past one, when a rumpus broke out on the drive. Bimbo was changing records, so the noise established itself readily; it was that of a multiple dog fight. Growls, yaps, full-blooded barking and strangulated cries of anguish mounted in a ragged crescendo.

Desirée said: ‘A rival show, it seems,’ and then, ‘Bimbo! Ours! They must have got out!’

Bimbo swore, pulled back the curtains and went through French windows to the terrace, followed by Andrew, Desirée and most of the other men.

Nicola found herself on the terrace in a group composed of all the ladies and Leonard.

The combat was joined among parked cars at the head of the drive and was illuminated by lights from the house. All was confusion. Some six or seven contestants bit at each other in a central engagement, others rolled together under cars. One very large, isolated dog sat on its haunches howling dispassionately, and one could be discerned belting down the drive screaming its classic cry of ‘pen-and-ink’.

Bimbo, Andrew and an advance guard went down into the arena and at first added greatly to the confusion. They shouted, swore, grabbed and kicked. Desirée suddenly joined them, was momentarily hidden, but emerged carrying an outraged poodle by the scruff of its neck. Servants ran out, offering hunting-crops and umbrellas. Expressions of human as well as canine anguish were now perceptible. Andrew detached himself, dragging two frenzied Aberdeens by their collars. They were Baynesholme dogs and were thrust with the poodle into a cloakroom where they got up a half-hearted row on their own account.

Bimbo now appeared carrying an air-gun. He waved the other men aside and presented his weapon at the central mélée. There was a mild explosion, followed by cries of distress and suddenly the arena had emptied and the night was plangent with the laments of rapidly retreating dogs.

Only one remained. Exhausted, gratified, infamous and complacent, her tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth, and her lead trailing from her collar, sat a boxer bitch: Mr Cartell’s Pixie, the Helen of the engagement. When Bimbo approached her she gathered herself together and bit him.

VI

The next morning Connie Cartell woke slowly from a heavy sleep. She experienced that not unusual sensation during half-consciousness, in which the threat of something unpleasant anticipates the recollection of the thing itself. She lay, blinking and yawning for a second or two. She heard her Austrian maid stump along the passage and knock on a door.

‘Damn!’ Connie thought. ‘I forgot to tell her not to disturb either of them.’

Then the full realization of all the horrors of the preceding evening came upon her.