Mrs Hollister, a small woman with the confidence wealth provides, was talking of the civilian casualties caused by the bombing of Syrian cities by Russian planes. It was a subject oddly out of place amid the relaxed movement and chatter, the warmth and filtered sunlight, the promise of good food and drink, and fellowship. Perhaps she wished to remind listeners of people less fortunate than themselves, perhaps she simply wanted to appear more aware of the wider world. The others endorsed her indignation, and Pearly said that the Russians openly and routinely flouted the rules of war. Andrew sat quietly with his slight smile. When the principal asked his opinion, he said he hadn’t followed events in the Middle East as closely as he should have, but it occurred to him that not all that long ago we’d been pleased enough to support the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima with the avowed intention of killing civilians. ‘Rules of war?’ he said almost nonchalantly. ‘Surely war is what happens when the rules fail. You can’t have rules for war, any more than you can have rules for rape.’

That topic ended there, and Nancy talked of the meal to come and reminded them, as wine arrived on the tables, that they should have their glasses charged after the main course for Pearly’s speech and the toast to the old boys. Pearly felt a fool. His fatuous talk of the rules of war so exposed by Andrew’s casual insight. He knew that wasn’t Andrew’s intention but felt somewhat belittled nevertheless and countered that by deciding that Hollister’s wife was a conceited pain. Her eyebrows were unnaturally high on her forehead as if she were in a constant state of astonishment, and she often interrupted when others were talking, impatient to bring forward her own opinions.