‘A nice change from the public ward. It was noisy down there,’ he said.

Roderick nodded agreement. His eye wandered round the room, noting that everything was in order. He kept his responsible man’s expression in place a little longer, then allowed it to fade into a sympathetic one. Charles watched fascinated as the performance became richer and richer: compassion tempered with a certain robust cheerfulness, as of one who understood all the suffering, shared it even, but had come as the messenger of hope.

‘The sister was telling me downstairs that they’ve every hope of your complete recovery,’ he said impressively. (If they told me that, it must be true. I’m not a man who gets lied to.)

‘Yes, they might get me walking when this plaster comes off,’ said Charles. This mechanical repeating of everything Roderick said, in an attempt to avoid breaking any fresh ground, was terribly boring and fatiguing. He felt listless. How soon would it be permissible for him to say he was tired?

‘I don’t want to stay too long: I know you mustn’t be tired,’ said Roderick. He leaned forward slightly in his chair as if on the point of standing up to go, then relapsed. ‘Just a few more minutes to think of anything I can send you—I tried to think of everything, but one can’t be sure. Or,’ he added, ‘any messages.’

Charles stiffened. That last word was the first piece of open bullying Roderick had indulged in: obviously he had not been able to resist it. Instinctively he rejected the (in theory) possible explanation that the man really wished to give him a chance to communicate with her, and was thus delicately introducing the subject. No, it was an insult. Messages! When the only message Charles could possibly care about was one that could under no circumstances be entrusted to him.

‘No, no messages,’ Charles said faintly. At any moment he could say he was tired, and the powerful magic would sweep this ghoul away.

‘That’s funny,’ said Roderick, standing up. ‘Because I’ve got one for you.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket. ‘I don’t know whether you recognize the writing.’

‘Charles Lumley, Esq.,’ in Veronica’s handwriting. His heart, after so long and so illusory a quietness, smashed at his ribs under the pyjama jacket.

As Roderick handed the envelope over he did not give an imitation of himself being anything. His face had become empty, quiescent, utterly without character.

Roughly Charles tore the letter open. A single sheet of paper, with only a few words written carefully.

‘It is true what Bernard tells you. There is nothing for it. I am sorry. V.’

He looked up at Roderick. Everything in him was nerved for some terrible blow.

‘Well, go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it is she says is true.’