“He’d have taken another. You heard him. He was going at Miss Singh all evening, and he didn’t like being snubbed at all.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have. Although, not provoking him is the Wittons’ tactic, and it doesn’t work either. One can see why they try not to, of course. I wonder if that sort of outburst happens often.”

“I suppose he builds up to it. What a nasty piece of work.”

“What do you think is wrong with him?”

“Being a nasty piece of work,” Bill said. “He enjoys making people unhappy; I don’t see anything more than that need be said.”

“Fen thinks he’s a drug fiend.”

“Does she, now.” Bill considered that. “Perhaps. But I’d think the drug-taking is an element of his delightful personality, rather than the root cause. That’s a man who enjoys the upper hand, and God help those he has it over.”

“Quite. Bill, shall we go home? This is really too awful and I don’t know how much more I can bear to watch.” She’d be leaving Fen to fend for herself, of course, but Fen wasn’t incapable and if she’d chosen Jimmy, with all his faults, as her protector, Pat had to respect that, no matter how much it hurt.

“I think you probably should. We’ll get you on a train tomorrow. I don’t imagine there’ll be shooting for a few days, and being trapped in this house with that swine—no, you should go.”

“And you.”

“I can’t,” Bill said. “You don’t mind travelling alone, do you?”

“What do you mean, you can’t? For heaven’s sake, come home. We can ignore Jonty; I dare say he’ll be wrapped up in Olivia. Or we could go to the seaside. You really do need a break, and this isn’t it.”

“It’s not that. I’ve a responsibility.”

“To Jimmy?” Pat said. “Really? Because it seems to me—”

“No, not Jimmy. Just a moment, I think that’s our dinner.”

A harried-looking maid came in bearing a platter of enough sandwiches for six and four bottles of beer, precariously balanced. Bill leapt up to take them with a word of thanks, and shut the door firmly after her. Pat took a sandwich more out of duty than pleasure, but the first bite reminded her that she was hungry, even if she was miserable. It was excellent thick-cut ham, mustard applied with a heavy hand, and she demolished two sandwiches while Bill ate four.

“Goodness, I needed that,” he said, taking a swig of beer.

“So did I.” Pat sipped hers more cautiously. “You were about to tell me why you can’t leave the worst house party since Julius Caesar invited Brutus for dinner.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “Mmm. Well.”

“Bill.”

Bill sighed. “All right, you may as well know. Have you heard of Threppel and Swing?”