‘Oh my! Good morning! I was so sure that I’d be late for you, I got a little behind with things, we leave tomorrow, and all the packing, and I thought, “I’ll be late, and he’s due at noon,” so I had to speed up a bit but here I am. Welcome!’

‘Thank you. You really aren’t late. I’m probably early.’

‘Well, excuse me being breathy. So many stairs.’ She looked about the terrace vaguely. The insect chairs were, today, now arranged in an uneasy circle. By uneasy I mean that they looked as if a conversation had been suddenly disturbed. A conspiracy? The whole terrace, a table at one end laid for lunch, looked like a badly arranged set for a show which had had insufficient rehearsal.

‘These awful chairs,’ said Millie suddenly. ‘We never use them. But do sit down. They are all we have here. We never come down to the terrace, not really. My husband finds it tedious. The elevator and steps and so on.’

She moved to the circle of chairs and sat down. I was bound to follow her example. We sat in silence for a moment.

‘Martin – you maybe saw him yesterday evening? In the hall? – well, he’ll be down directly with something delicious to drink. And cool. You must be warm after that walk up the hill, and it’s a warm day too. My! It’s warm for so early in May.’

Millie was wearing a frock. Just as Martha had suggested last evening. A floral frock. Bluish, pinkish, puff sleeves, a Peter Pan collar. Neat, trim. Not high fashion by any means, but pleasant, feminine, better by far than her tracksuit. Her pipe-cleaner legs ended in a pair of blue plastic flip-flops.

Suddenly she said, ‘Do you care for lizards? Or do they scare you?’

‘Lizards?’

‘Yes. Do they scare you?’

‘No. Should they?’

‘Oh I don’t know. But some people do get scared of them.’

‘Not me. I won’t.’

‘Only there are a few scuttering about, quite near your feet. Your right foot. I just thought I’d warn you.’

‘Very thoughtful. But they don’t bother me.’

‘There they are!’ she said brightly. ‘It’s spring. The mating season. You know sometimes they have terrible fights. Roll around. Really bad.’