‘There speaks the Russian in you, Sergius Ivanovitch,’ said Mrs Denman.

‘And finds an echo in you, Anna Mikalovna,’ he threw back quickly.

Mr Satterthwaite looked from one to the other of the three of them. John Denman, fair, aloof, English, and the other two, dark, thin, strangely alike. Something rose in his mind—what was it? Ah! he had it now. The first Act of the Walküre. Siegmund and Sieglinde—so alike—and the alien Hunding. Conjectures began to stir in his brain. Was this the meaning of the presence of Mr Quin? One thing he believed in firmly—wherever Mr Quin showed himself—there lay drama. Was this it here—the old hackneyed three-cornered tragedy?

He was vaguely disappointed. He had hoped for better things.

‘What has been arranged, Anna?’ asked Denman. ‘The thing will have to be put off, I suppose. I heard you ringing the Roscheimers up.’

She shook her head.

‘No—there is no need to put it off.’

‘But you can’t do it without the ballet?’

‘You certainly couldn’t have a Harlequinade without Harlequin and Columbine,’ agreed Anna Denman drily. ‘I’m going to be Columbine, John.’

‘You?’ He was astonished—disturbed, Mr Satterthwaite thought.

She nodded composedly.

‘You need not be afraid, John. I shall not disgrace you. You forget—it was my profession once.’

Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘What an extraordinary thing a voice is. The things it says—and the things it leaves unsaid and means! I wish I knew …’

‘Well,’ said John Denman grudgingly, ‘that solves one half of the problem. What about the other? Where will you find Harlequin?’

‘I have found him—there!’

She gestured towards the open doorway where Mr Quin had just appeared. He smiled back at her.

‘Good lord, Quin,’ said John Denman. ‘Do you know anything of this game? I should never have imagined it.’

‘Mr Quin is vouched for by an expert,’ said his wife. ‘Mr Satterthwaite will answer for him.’

She smiled at Mr Satterthwaite, and the little man found himself murmuring:

‘Oh, yes—I answer for Mr Quin.’

Denman turned his attention elsewhere.

‘You know there’s to be a fancy dress dance business afterwards. Great nuisance. We’ll have to rig you up, Satterthwaite.’

Mr Satterthwaite shook his head very decidedly.

‘My years will excuse me.’ A brilliant idea struck him. A table napkin under his arm. ‘There I am, an elderly waiter who has seen better days.’

He laughed.

‘An interesting profession,’ said Mr Quin. ‘One sees so much.’

‘I’ve got to put on some fool pierrot thing,’ said Denman gloomily. ‘It’s cool anyway, that’s one thing. What about you?’ He looked at Oranoff.

‘I have a Harlequin costume,’ said the Russian. His eyes wandered for a minute to his hostess’s face.

Mr Satterthwaite wondered if he was mistaken in fancying that there was just a moment of constraint.