I saw with amusement that he had only just taken his eyes away from Susan’s breasts.

“There’s some port,” Sybil said. “But you mustn’t sit too long over it.” She wagged her finger at us.

“We won’t,” Mark said. “In fact, it’s a foolish custom. I’ve always been against it, haven’t you, Joe?” He winked heavily.

“Yes. Ah yes. Absolutely.”

“That’s what you say. I know better.”

She wagged her finger at us again. Her face was flushed; she was, if not drunk, mildly tipsy. I rose and drew her chair back for her. I caught a whiff of her scent. It was a light floral scent, not heavy enough to mask the smell of her sweat. I’d never known her use scent before; Mark would have a big night tonight. She was excited; and try as I would, I couldn’t find the notion anything else but distasteful, nor feel anything but a half-amused contempt for Mark.

As the women went out of the room, his eyes were on Susan. I saw again on his face that expression of desperate longing which I’d noticed before.

“You’re a very lucky man,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Susan’s been a jewel. I don’t know what Sybil would have done without her. She’s been here every day, helping out. Sybil – well, you know how women are. They’re very tough, and then they just cave in. Only another woman can help.”

He was speaking rather as if what had happened in the past ten days had had no connection with him; and as he detailed all the ways in which Susan had helped Sybil out, my temper began to rise.

“Be more careful next time,” I said. “Why the hell had you to pick on Lucy of all people?”

He grinned. “You don’t pick girls to have affairs with, old man. They pick you.” He straightened his tie in the mirror. It was a blue spotted bow tie and would have made me look like an out-of-work actor; on Mark it gave the impression of gaiety and pros­­perity. He was wearing a double-breasted grey suit; double-breasted suits hadn’t been worn for ten years, but Mark somehow made me wonder uneasily if it weren’t I in my new single-breasted suit who was out of fashion.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “But I wish you’d play away from home.”

“Don’t throw the first stone,” he said. “I’ve been a bad boy, I know. Look, you don’t really like port, do you? It’s bloody awful port anyway. And you’ve got to decant the stuff and pass it round—” He went to the sideboard and took out a bottle of White Horse.