It struck her that he was excited. Keyed up. Not attending to the answers she gave him. She was relieved when he strolled away.

Maggie came up to her and gave her a squeeze. ‘I’ll want to know what you think,’ she said. ‘Really. What you think and feel.’

‘Perry says you’re wonderful.’

‘Does he? Does he really?’

‘Really and truly. Without qualifications.’

‘Too good. Too soon. I don’t know,’ she muttered.

‘All’s well.’

‘I hope so. Oh, this play. This play, Emmy, my dear.’

‘I know.’

She wandered distractedly away and sat down, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Nina Gaythorne came in, draped, as always, in a multiplicity of hand-woven scarves. She saw Emily and waved the end of one of them, at the same time making a strange grimace and raising her faded eyes to contemplate the dome. It was impossible to interpret; some kind of despair, Emily wondered? She waved back conservatively.

The man with Miss Gaythorne was unknown to Emily. Straw-coloured. Tight mouth, light eyes. She guessed he was the Banquo. Bruce Barrabell. They sat together, apart from the others. Emily had the uncomfortable feeling that Nina was telling him who she was. She found herself momentarily looking into his eyes, which startled her by their sharpness and the quick furtive withdrawal of his gaze.

Macduff, Simon Morten, she recognized from Peregrine’s description. He was physically exactly right; dark, handsome and reckless; at the moment, nervous and withdrawn but a swashbuckler nevertheless.

Here came the three witches, two girls gabbling nervously, and Rangi, aloof, indrawn and anxious. Then the Royals: King Duncan, magnificent, portentous, and his two sons to whom he seemed to lend a condescending ear. Two Murderers. The Gentlewoman and the Doctor. Lennox and Ross. Menteith. Angus. Caithness. And, with Nina Gaythorne, a small boy. So that’s William, she thought. Last, solemn, brooding, his claymore held upright in its harness, Gaston, the sword-bearer.

I’m thinking about them as they are in the play, Emily told herself. And they are behaving as they do in the play. No. Not behaving. How absurd of me. But they are keeping together in their groups.

The front curtains parted and Peregrine came through.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is an uninterrupted run-through, with props and effects. It will be timed. I’ll take notes at the end of the first half. There has been a slight tendency to drag. We’ll watch that, if you please. Right. Act I, Scene 1. The witches.’

They went up through the box.

Peregrine came down the temporary steps into the house and to his improvised desk across the stalls. His secretary was beside him and the mechanical people behind.

He had given Emily a typed scene sequence each with a hint of what went on in it.

‘You don’t need it,’ he said. ‘I just thought you might like to be reminded of the sequence of events.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Right,’ Peregrine called.