His modesty stuns. This is the first of many, many visits, he becomes a regular and is accepted as such. But he continues painting and even has a small, ‘very tiny display’ in a gallery, which sells.

A little green card, thoughtfully slipped into one of the following Agendas, alerts me and saves my eyesight. James’s tales are banal, his handwriting minute but a story line is developing. The green card points the way.

An unexpected, and for that reason amazing meeting at the Poisson. Solly, the patron [Aronovich clearly] takes me to the private loge of Brent Millar, the writer. He is being treated like an Emperor! Everyone is staggered by his looks.

Including James, who describes him thus:

Tall, golden, bronzed, obviously very athletic, with slender hands like a pianist, but above all blue eyes which are incandescent.

First arrival on the scene of Mr Millar. More to follow. Seeing James he goes into the Agenda with the following immortal lines:

Dear God! Just look! Here we have Narkissos to the life. Safe and well and living in Paris, France! I assume that you have fallen in love with your appearance already? Or is that still to come?

No. He had fallen in love with his reflection and so, it would appear, had Brent Millar for, before long, James is a regular visitor to the ‘glorious apartment on Île Saint-Louis’ and meets another regular.

Such books and such paintings! Dufy, Miró, Modigliani, Sisley! Flowers everywhere, and a black manservant, about my age, who is ravishingly beautiful, called Jojo. He once worked at the Poisson.

And so it goes on, this story. I almost forgot from time to time that I was reading about someone I knew. Well, thought that I had known. But obviously this was a James no one beyond the Île Saint-Louis and the club did know. Millar bided his time, he did not force his attentions on his pupil; he merely let him look, listen and learn from watching. The club became his passion, even though he continued with his work, and had another modest exhibition, which, again, was a success and brought him some money which, living as he now was, was clearly needed. Papa’s allowance was not elastic. He had to work. But another coloured card alerted me to another key moment in the life of my brother. Apparently at the Poisson there was a small private room for select members. This room had a small stage, rows of seats, and was strictly a private affair. Here ‘demonstrations’ of various sexual kinds were given. Sometimes with poetry readings to accompany the ‘demonstration’ or tableau or tableaux. These, as might be expected, all glorified maleness, sex, violence, brutality, pain, torture and, above all, the ‘glorification of extreme humiliation’. In short, this private club was a bondage club.