‘Are you all right, Veronica? You seem rather quiet; can I get you anything to drink?’ asked Bernard Roderick, coming over to them. Mr. Blearney had finished his recital, and the central group was beginning to break up.

‘No thanks, Uncle. Mr. Lumley is looking after me very nicely.’ She smiled up at him, quite tense but quite composed. Only the hand that held the cigarette allowed the spiral of smoke to waver a little.

‘Well, I’ll just sit quietly and talk to you,’ said Mr. Roderick levelly, sinking into a chair on the other side of her. ‘This party’s beginning to tire me. So many noisy people. I’m sure you two are right to get away from it into,’ he smiled tinily, ‘a quiet corner.’

Charles wanted to stamp on his stomach.

There was a short silence. Veronica sat absolutely still with the untouched glass at her side. She might have been carved, deli­cately, lovingly, by some patient old artist from a single block of ivory.

Mr. Blearney approached them, leading the man with the big face. ‘Hullo, there,’ he shouted. ‘All happy, partners? All got plenty to drink? Hey listen, Bernard, Jimmy here wants you to tell Elsa about the time you and Alfie Beaner were in Rio. She’s never heard that story. Elsa, love, come on over here! Jimmy’s been telling me you’ve never heard Bernard tell the story about the time he was in Rio with Alfie Beaner. You mustn’t miss this! Yes, Alfie Beaner. Hell, I didn’t know anyone didn’t know that story!’

‘Is it a good story?’ said Elsa slowly, and without much enthusiasm. She had reached a stage of intoxication which made it difficult for her to follow a connected narrative, and she was wondering whether this one would be worth the effort.

‘No, it’s not a good story, really,’ said Bernard Roderick with a firmness that sounded greater than the occasion warranted. He seemed to be trying rather determinedly to get out of performing. But nothing would have put Mr. Blearney off the scent.

‘Not a good story!’ he shouted incredulously. ‘What’s come over you, Bernard? You’ve made more people laugh at my parties with that story—why, don’t you remember the time Peter Philp was here, and I bet him he’d have to laugh, and he held out without laughing until you got to the bit where the old woman comes in and says, well, hell, I mustn’t give it away, but you remember you were imitating the old woman, standing there and saying, will you gentlemen have your coffee in here or out in the street in the rain, don’t you remember, and he laughed so much he got some kind of seizure and couldn’t straighten his legs?’

‘Yes, it’s a good story all right,’ said the big-faced man. ‘I’d like fine for Elsa to hear that story.’