Hélène admired Sofía’s resilience. The fact that English was not her native language, and that she still spoke with the fieriness of San Sebastián, from where she came, made her seem more defiant still. ‘Nobody’s questioning that, Sofía.’

‘It’s only . . . I know my brother. It is guns with him. Guns, guns, guns, ever since we were children. Sometimes, all a man needs is an excuse, and . . .’

‘San Sebastián is a world away from Madrid. He could be across the border and into France by now.’

‘Across the border! Our father would turn in his grave. No, Miss Marchmont, he went south two weeks ago. I am certain of that.’ This time Sofía managed to conquer her tears. Hélène saw them welling in her eyes and knelt again, to dab them away with the corner of her chemise.

Two weeks had already passed and what they were calling the Spanish Emergency showed no signs of coming to a close. The BBC had begun to use the word ‘war’, and the less salubrious news sheets had been using it since the start. Sofía had written immediately to her mother, but as yet there had been no reply. News of atrocity spread so much faster than missives of love. The world would send correspondents to watch the killing, but not to help families.

There was a knock at the dressing room door and Billy Brogan appeared. Brogan was seventeen years old and seemed to have been born in the Buckingham Hotel itself, so well did he know its nooks and crannies. In the last year Hélène had watched him transform from boy to man – but he still kept some of his impishness of old. He had the face of a cherub, even though he now devotedly cultivated the few whiskers he could grow, and even put pomade in his hair (for the benefit, he insisted, of the hotel’s finest guests). Billy whistled for her and, leaving Sofía to calm herself, Hélène joined him at the door.

‘It’s Mr Charles,’ Billy said, his voice still rolling with the Dublin brogue, even though Billy had not been back since he was a child. ‘He requests the honour of your company.’

Oh he does, does he? She was doing her best to contain her weariness, but the longer she danced at the Buckingham, the more she grew tired of the factions and politicking that went on in the hotel halls. She had come here to dance and, for a time, that had sustained her. Dancing was her life. But now? Now dancing seemed the least of it. Now there’s girls to play mother to, schedules to keep, a hundred different men to keep happy, and all without ever admitting what I really want. When I’m on the ballroom floor, that’s when I’m alive. But when I’m not . . .