They shaped up well. William was quick and unobjectionable. The young Macduff was cheeky and he showed spirit and breeding. His mama returned, a quietly dressed woman from whom he had inherited his vowels. They completed the financial arrangements and left. Nina, delighted with him, also left. Peregrine said to Dougal and Maggie: ‘And now, my dears, the rest of the day is ours. Let’s consolidate.’

They did. They too went well. Very well. And yet there was something about the rehearsal that made Peregrine almost wish for ructions. For an argument. He had insisted upon the Lady using the sexual attributes she had savagely wrenched away from herself. Maggie agreed. Dougal responded. He actually shivered under her touch. When they broke for discussion, she did so absolutely and was at once the professional actress tackling a professional detail. He was slower, resentful almost. Only for a second or two and then all attention. Too much so. As if he was playing to an audience; in a way, as if he showed himself off to Maggie – ‘I’m putting on an act for you.’

Peregrine told himself he was being fanciful. It’s this play, he thought. It’s a volcano. Overflowing. Thickening. And then: Perhaps that’s why all these damn superstitions have grown up round it.

‘Any questions?’ he asked them.

‘It’s about her feeling for Macbeth,’ said Maggie. ‘I take it that from the beginning she has none. She simply uses her body as an incentive.’

‘Absolutely. She turns him on like a tap and turns him off when she gets her response. From the beginning she sees his weakness. He wants to eat his cake and keep it.’

‘Yes. She, on the other hand, dedicates herself to evil. She’s not an insensitive creature but she shuts herself off completely from any thought of remorse. Before the murder she takes enough wine to see her through and notes, with satisfaction, that it has made her bold,’ said Maggie.

‘She asks too much of herself. And pays the penalty. After the disastrous dinner party, she almost gives up,’ Peregrine said. ‘Macbeth speaks disjointedly of more crimes. She hardly listens. Always the realist, she says they want sleep! When next we see her she is asleep and saying those things that she would not say if she were awake. She’s driven herself too hard. Now, the horror finds its way out in her sleep.’

‘And what about her old man all this time?’ asked Dougal loudly. ‘Is she thinking about him, for God’s sake?’

‘We’re not told but – no. I imagine she still goes on for a time stopping up the awful holes he makes in the façade but with no pretence of affection or even much interest. He’s behaving as she feared he might. She has no sympathy or fondness for him. When next we see him, Dougal, he’s half mad.’

‘Thank you very much!’