“Chubby’s quite mad,” he said. “He’s got unmitigated cheek, and never fails to get away with it.”

“I like him,” Elizabeth said, not in the least understanding what it was that Chubby got away with.

“Of course. Everyone does. By the way, would you like to dance, or would you rather sit out this one?”

“I’d like to sit it out.” She glanced up at him, through her shadowy lashes. “I’ve never talked to an author before.”

His vanity was flattered; he forgave her use of the word “author.”

“You looked so scared when Sarah introduced me that I guessed at once you hadn’t read my books,” he said, laughing.

“No, but I’ve heard people talking about them,” she assured him. “Often. You wrote I Celandine, didn’t you?”

“I did. My first, feeble effort. I’m glad you haven’t read it.”

“I was told that it was good. Why are you glad?”

“Because it wasn’t good. The book I’ve just published never is. The masterpiece is always the next book.”

“At that rate there’ll never be a masterpiece—in your estimation.”

“I hope not. I’d be rather conceited if I ever thought my own book a masterpiece, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose you would. You wouldn’t come to dances any more, because you’d think it beneath your dignity.”

“Not a bit. I’d come just to show myself, which would be worse. May I introduce you to my sister? She’s coming towards us now. Cynny!”

Elizabeth saw that his sister was a fair girl in a wispy black frock with a jazz-sash. She was like her brother, only with blue eyes, rather light and hard.

“Hullo!” she said, and removed her cigarette, in its long black holder, from her mouth.

“Miss Arden—my sister, Mrs. Ruthven.”

“How d’you do?” Mrs. Ruthven said. When she spoke she was not like Stephen at all; her words came trenchantly, jerked out. “Don’t let Stephen bore you, Miss Arden. He’s rather inclined to hold forth.”

A glance passed between her and Stephen. Her eyebrows rose infinitesimally; she sat down opposite Elizabeth, on the other side of the little table and waved a casual hand towards her partner.

“My husband. Anthony, ask the Stowe girl to dance. She’ll be overcome.”

“But I thought—” he began to expostulate.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Cynthia curtly.

He drifted away; he was amiable and rather fat, with kind eyes. Cynthia stayed and talked to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth discovered that she too wrote, not novels, but poems. She asked all sorts of questions about Elizabeth, but not as though she was really interested. Then, most surprisingly, she asked Elizabeth to come to tea one day, at her flat.

Elizabeth stammered.

“Thank you very much—I should love to,” which was not true, because Cynthia repelled her.