‘What did they want to sit out in the rain for?’ asked Elsa, beginning her grim struggle to understand.

‘Hell, no, that’s just part of it,’ roared Mr. Blearney. ‘They didn’t want to, and anyway that’s just part of it. . . . Bernard, you’ve got to tell her the whole story, so come on!’

They clustered round Mr. Roderick eagerly, and some of the other guests, those who felt like hearing the story again, came over and added themselves to the audience. Mr. Roderick disappeared in the centre of the expectant circle.

Charles stood up and vacated his chair to let Elsa sit down. She could hardly be expected to cope with the double strain of balan­cing on her legs and following the story. She sank into the chair so rapidly that she nearly pinned him underneath her, but he managed to slip past. Looking round, he saw that Veronica, too, had detached herself unobtrusively and was on the other side of the room brooding over a plate of olives. He went across to her.

‘Do you like this party?’ she asked, suddenly half-turning so as to face him.

‘I haven’t thought about it,’ he answered. ‘I only came because of you.’

She was silent, and Charles began to feel his earlier sense of ease and resolution leaving him. He fought to keep his self-possession, knowing that if he began to slide downwards he would not stop until he reached the very lowest level of gaping idiocy.

‘May I call you Veronica?’ he burst out, saying the first thing that came into his head.

Her smile this time had a flavour of genuine amusement in it. Probably this was as near as she ever came to laughing. He could not imagine her shaken by laughter.

‘How funny to say you love me and then ask if you can call me Veronica—in that order.’

‘It’s not funny at all. It happened in that order. I loved you before I knew either of your names.’

‘You mean any of them,’ she said. ‘I’ve got three.’

Again he felt himself slipping. Again he succumbed to the old fatal tendency, to stammer out the first piece of lunacy that entered his head.

‘Do you like this party yourself?’ he asked.

She shook her head with unexpected violence.

‘I hate it. I always hate Mr. Blearney’s parties, and so does my uncle. He only keeps up with him because of some business connection.’

Charles tried to think what business connection Mr. Roderick, a respectable industrialist, could have with Mr. Blearney and his Entertainments. He did not know the answer, but some instinct told him that it stank. He jerked his mind back on to the rails again.

‘Then why did you come to it?’ he heard himself saying, horrified at his own foolishness.