‘If I look any longer I’ll frighten myself,’ said Rangi.

‘Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please.’

Gaston Sears dressed alone. He would have been a most uncomfortable companion, singing, muttering, uttering snatches of ancient rhymes and paying constant visits to the lavatory.

He occupied a tiny room that nobody else wanted but which seemed to please him.

When Peregrine called he found him in merry mood. ‘I congratulate you, dear boy,’ he cried. ‘You have undoubtedly hit upon a valid interpretation of the cryptic Seyton.’

Peregrine shook hands with him. ‘I mustn’t wish you luck,’ he said.

‘But why not, perceptive boy? We wish each other luck. A la bonne heure.’

Peregrine hurried on to Nina Gaythorne’s room.

Her dressing table was crowded with objects of baffling inconsistency and each of them must be fondled and kissed. A plaster Genesius, patron saint of actors, was in pride of place. There were also a number of anti-witchcraft objects and runes. The actress who played the Gentlewoman shared the dressing room and had very much the worst of the bargain. Not only did Nina take three-quarters of the working bench for her various protective objects, she spent a great deal of time muttering prophylactic rhymes and prayers.

These exercises were furtively carried out with one scary eye on the door. Whenever anyone knocked she leapt up and cast her make-up towel over her sacred collection. She then stood with her back to the bench, her hands resting negligently upon it, and broke out into peals of unconvincing laughter.

Macduff and Banquo were in the next-door room to Sir Dougal and were quiet and businesslike. Simon Morten was withdrawn into himself, tense and silent. When he first came he did a quarter of an hour’s limbering-up and then took a shower and settled to his make-up. Bruce Barrabell tried a joke or two but, getting no response, fell silent. Their dresser attended to them.

Barrabell whistled two notes, remembered it was considered unlucky, stopped short and said, ‘Shit.’

‘Out,’ said Simon.

‘I didn’t know you were one of the faithful.’

‘Go on. Out.’

He went out and shut the door. A pause. He turned round three times and then knocked.

‘Yes?’

‘– humbly apologize. May I come back? Please.’

‘Come in.’

‘Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please.’

William Smith dressed with Duncan and his sons. He was perfectly quiet and very pale. Malcolm, a pleasant young fellow, helped him make up. Duncan, attended by a dresser, magnificently looked on.

‘First nights,’ he groaned comprehensively. ‘How I hate them.’ His glance rested upon William. ‘This is your first First Night, laddie, is it not?’

‘There’ve been school showings, sir,’ said William nervously.

‘School showings eh? Well, well, well,’ he said profoundly. ‘Ah well.’

He turned to his ramshackle part propped up against his looking glass and began to mutter. ‘“So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.”’