“Yes. And then we’ll think about dinner. Does she live in London, your actress friend?”

“Kensington,” I said.

He looked at the blonde. “I’ve seen her on TV,” he said. He named her. I hadn’t been able to identify the fashionably kit­tenish face, but I remembered the name. It had been in all the papers some six months ago; too much drink, a wife on the way up, and a husband on the way down.

Tiffield’s eyes were bright. “Strange lives these people lead,” he said, happily.

“Some of them,” I said. Jean hadn’t been cited twice as a co-respondent, nor had she virtually driven a husband to his death, but Jean hadn’t climbed very high yet. And Jean, when she’d rested for too long, could always return to Warley and home cook­ing; there was always a safety net, there was never any need to be frightened.

I looked at the blonde again; she was leaning forward to listen to what one of her companions was saying. Her black dress was so low-cut that it didn’t seem possible for the nipples not to be revealed; but I turned my eyes away. I felt ashamed to lust after her; I knew what had made that face blank, I knew what it was like up there on the tightrope.

“Delectable,” said Tiffield. “If I were younger, I’d ask you if your friend had a friend.” He pulled out a watch. “Five shillings,” he said. “Five shillings in 1930. And it’s never cost me a penny in repairs. It’ll be going long after that pretty little toy you’re wear­ing has ceased to function. . . .” He peered at the watch. “They stir you up, they really do. But time is running on. Yes, time is running on. We really must think about dinner. . . .”

He thought about dinner to some purpose, beginning with foie gras. This was the only moment at which he showed any in­decision; he wasn’t sure whether or not he preferred caviar. He went on to trout, chicken en cocotte, and crêpes suzette; he didn’t talk much, but ate with enormous concentration, his napkin tucked into his collar. Between courses he smoked my ciga­rettes and drank the lion’s share of the wines – hock, vin rosé and Ma­deira. The wines were his choice, not mine, and as each bottle was brought out he treated me to a short homily on the reasons for his choice.

We had a good view of the dance floor; that evening there appeared to be a great many young people there. They were mix­ing, they all seemed to know each other, there was an air of cele­bration. They would be private persons spending their own money; this would be a big night, they’d be enjoying them­selves, an evening at the Savoy would be something worth remember­ing. Eleven years ago, I’d gone regularly to the Dufton Locarno; there too I’d sat upstairs and ate and drank and watched the dancers. I’d eaten sausage rolls and drunk tea or coffee and my suit had cost nearer ten guineas than thirty-five; but I had been a private person, spending my own money. And I had been free to join the dancers.