So ferociously intellectual and testing by reputation, Howard was startled by the subject matter Clarke introduced. Surely he could only have stumbled upon it because large quantities of alcohol had been consumed.

‘I’m writing an article about which city is the home to the fairest women in the land,’ Clarke announced. The company erupted into laughter and catcalls. None of them could believe he was serious, and then, once they had established he was, every man had an opinion on the matter; a strong one. The Irish writer insisted it was his home town, Dublin, that bred the most beauties; others called for their home towns, Manchester, London, Sheffield; others still would argue equally vociferously against the same spot.

Liverpool seemed to be edging ahead in the dubious poll. A number of the men commented that there was something of note in the clearness and texture of the skin of the women there.

‘Yes, walk along Bold Street or Lord Street or Church Street, you’ll be struck, I promise you. Far higher average beauty than in any other city, not even equalled in London itself,’ Clarke stated authoritatively. ‘The problem with London,’ he continued, ‘is that the beauties are suspiciously sensitive to prevailing fashions. Let copper-red be the fashionable hue and suddenly the streets are awash with the colour. The unanimity dulls.’

‘I agree,’ commented the barrister with a sigh.

‘Besides, Londoners often look careworn, tired,’ Clarke added.

‘Aberdeen girls are bright-cheeked,’ piped up another journalist.

‘Yes, but they dress so badly,’ murmured a third.

Howard thought the perpetrator of this comment was probably not all that interested in females. Personally Howard didn’t care how a woman dressed; it was all about the undressing. He smiled benignly but did not argue too passionately for any town or city in particular. Experience had shown him that there were pretty women everywhere.

Howard was a pleasant drunk; he became mellow and dreamy rather than annoyingly didactic or opinionated. He simply smiled and smiled and grew quieter and quieter. Clarke noticed his reticence and with the challenging authority of a more abrasive drunk demanded, ‘You are very quiet. Do you have an opinion on the matter?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, what is it then?’

‘My opinion is that you ought to be writing about something more important.’ His thoughts had tumbled from his head to his lips and into the room before he could consider the effect of confronting such an influential newspaperman. He caught Warrington’s scowl, pitched accurately across the table of full and empty glasses.

Three or four of the other men burst out laughing and agreed, ‘Yes. Yes, no doubt he ought.’ Clarke said nothing, but held eye contact with Howard long enough to make Warrington squirm with fear and fury.

Later, as they were leaving the club, Warrington demanded of Howard, ‘Why did you have to make an enemy of that fellow Basil Clarke?’

‘I wasn’t aware I had.’ Howard shrugged his way into his coat that was being held wide by a manservant.