There were thirty of the dancers. They weren’t dancing; some of them weren’t even drinking. It didn’t seem to me as if there were going to be an orgy; everyone there seemed to be very young. Or maybe, I thought, I’d come ten years too late. “I’ll get you a drink,” said Jean “Name it, sweetie.”

“I will name it, and I’ll name him,” Jeff said. “I’ve just remem­bered. It’s Lampton and he wants a large Scotch; that’s what the successful businessman drinks in Warley.” He flattened the first vowel of Warley into a bleat, looking at me to observe the effect. I felt a spurt of anger; automatically I measured him up. He was two inches taller than me but he was painfully thin. It wasn’t an athletic thinness, it was a disjointed, underfed thinness; he seemed somehow brittle. Or as if his bones hadn’t hardened yet; there was more than a touch of childishness about him.

“You’ve guessed right,” I said. “You seem to know Warley quite well.” I offered him a cigarette. It suddenly seemed impor­tant to please him, not because I cared about pleasing him but as an exercise in handling people.

“I lived there once. And I’ve worked for your father-in-law,” he said. “During the war. We never saw eye to eye.”

“Who does?”

“It’s different for you,” he said. “I was just a clerk.”

“We all are,” I said. “Every last one of us at Brown and Co.” At the far end of the room, half-hidden behind a studio couch was a big tape recorder; its profusion of knobs and switches put me in mind of the Flamville computer which, against my advice, Brown had just acquired. Firmly I put the recollection out of my mind.

“He’s the big boss,” Jeff said. “No togetherness for Abe Brown. He’s a throwback, a nineteenth-century throwback.”

Jean came back with the drinks; he took his from her absently and drank half of it at one gulp. She looked at him anxiously. “Are you all right, Jeff?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just talking about old times with Mr. Lamp­ton.” He giggled. “I know him, you see. He drives around Warley in a big white car. He doesn’t know me, though. I see him but he doesn’t see me. He lives at the top—”

“A friend of yours has just arrived,” Jean said, rather coldly.

“Mr. Lampton’s my friend. Everyone knows Mr. Lampton. He reminds me of dear old Warley. Dear little Warley, dear residen­tial Warley. I visit Warley now and again, you know. My mum lives on Tebbutt Street. At the bottom—”

A plump hand fastened on his shoulder. He turned round. “Judy, my love! I’ve been missing you all evening!” He took her by the waist and held her out at arm’s length. “God, you look won­derful. I’m going to monopolize you, absolutely monopolize you.” He took her to the long table near the tape recorder. “You look wonderful,” I heard him say again; then he whispered something to her and she laughed happily. For a second she looked the younger of the two; then her face became middle-aged and greedy again.