‘Thomas, you are no longer young. It is the twentieth century. There has been a great war over Europe. Many things have changed. There are motor cars now and telephones. Do you recognize any of this, Thomas? Are you there? Do you hear me? Are you alive, Thomas?’

I must confess that I was very taken with Harry’s quick sketch of the march of history, and if I could have called myself my own I would have applauded it. But already someone else was listening with my ears and speaking with my lips. Someone I didn’t much care for, either, and who was at the same time vaguely and unpleasantly familiar. I’m not saying that I had been here, in this guise, once before – I wasn’t having a bar of any of that spook stuff, even while it was happening – but something was dawning on me, some dim sensation of repetition, as if I was half way through a movie which I’d only just realised I’d already seen.

‘Do you hear me, Thomas?’ Harry Vilbert was droning on. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, of course I’m here,’ it was time for me to say. ‘There is no need for you to shout.’

‘I’m sorry, Thomas, I wasn’t certain you’d be there.’

‘Where else am I going to be? You’re as bad as Florence.’

‘Who is Florence?’ Harry Vilbert wasn’t going to make the mistake of asking where she was, in case the answer turned out to be: Outside, swinging.

‘Who, indeed! I can tell you she is not the Florence she was meant to be, or might have been but for another of God Almighty’s mighty blunders.’

Poor Harry! He must have felt he had wandered into a minefield. But he went very cautiously. ‘Is she your daughter?’ he asked, giving the Almighty’s blunder a wide berth.

‘Daughter? There have been no daughters for me. Florence is my wife.’

‘Have you been married long, Thomas?’

‘Married? I have been married all my life! When haven’t I been married?’

‘So Florence is your childhood sweetheart?’

‘She? No. The childhood sweethearts have all gone. Long gone. Florence is … was … a girl. Florence came later. She makes for continuity.’

‘You are a lucky man, Thomas, to have a young wife.’

‘I have never considered myself an especially fortunate or favoured man. It makes no difference, you know, young or old … it’s all sweet for a space and then – lamentation. One is best left chasing the intangible essences, the aroma. But, yes, it helps to have young women around. I was talking to a rare beauty today. Lady Ilchester’s daughter. A mere fifteen. Fair skin and a full mouth. A face of almost perfect classicality; Greek softened into English. I wonder who will marry her? I often wonder who marries these girls. Florence, of course, didn’t like it.’

‘Were you flirting?’