Her new life will be simpler. She sees the way forward. It’s not too late for her to adopt the more democratic life of people like Bryce and Morné, although she has hints that Morné sees himself as a bit of a philosopher. Sport has given him an insight into motivation and he believes he can harness this energy. When he first told her this, she wondered if he was thinking of producing his own electricity, but he was referring to dynamic qualities, like leadership. And now, next to the dying, blindly semaphoring figure of her husband, she finds herself thinking of her lovers, naked: Bryce, cheerful, relaxed, smallish cock emerging from reddish pubic hair; Morné all long hard limbs and fibrous muscles, with pubic hair that fades gradually to underbrush on his stomach. His cock is darkish at the end as if someone had been drawing on it with a marker pen. Bryce treats sex as a pleasant pastime, a bit of a laugh, but Morné sees it as a test of his masculinity. She has come – so late – to appreciate the connection between youth and sex.

She understands now, as she sits by the grinning, gurning, contorting, wild-eyed body that is Harry, that all his relationships were conducted on his terms. It was his contempt that drove Simon to be a gentleman explorer, a career choice that enabled him to put a huge distance between himself and his father. He once told Julian that he felt there was not enough air for him in a room occupied by Harry.

Harry’s geniality was of the iceberg sort: below the surface there was a lot more implacable coldness. His views on the theatre always had to prevail over hers; his choice of restaurant or acceptance of invitations or choice of hotel contained the premise that only he had the taste and the experience to make these judgements. She was supposed to be forever grateful to be admitted to his charmed world, but now things have changed: j’ai deux amants. And Harry is dying, right in front of her eyes, his power over her lost, and she is elated by and frightened by what is to come.

But still, she loved Harry. She believes it. She loved him. She loved his urbanity and his charm and his passion for her body; she delighted during those early years at how she aroused him. At times it seemed obsessive, as though by feasting on her youth he could ingest some of it. Like the cannibals in Melanesia who wanted to acquire their victims’ qualities. Maybe that’s what she’s doing now.

She sits with Harry, increasingly desperate. Kim has said that she is not coming to the hospital because she doesn’t want the children in the presence of death. It’s a lively death, punctuated by moans and horrible broad smiles and small convulsions.