‘By which you mean I should have more confidence in myself?’ Claud accelerated, hating the oblique criticism which, he now told himself, had driven his father into leaving home. His mother did not reply. This kind of silence had also precipitated his father’s departure. We have not reached the right moment, he told himself.

Laura Thornby accepted another glass of wine but refused the quiche. She stood with her back to the wall, watching the concert crowd thin as they said their goodbyes, collected their wraps and went out into the night where the timbre of their voices sharpened in the freezing air. She thought, as the concert hall doors opened and shut, that she must have imagined the shiver of apprehension she had felt when Margaret Bannister introduced her son. She had felt the draught, she told herself, the night outside was freezing. Her shiver was nothing to do with Claud Bannister.

What a lot he had said in those short minutes. How impetuous to spill such a lapful of hope and ambition to a stranger. What a risk he had taken. And in a crowd! Anyone could have heard what he said. Sipping her wine Laura waited for the evening to end and as she waited she thought of Claud Bannister and was interested in her interest.

‘Can we give you a lift?’ Helen Peel, her arm through her husband’s, slowed as they walked by.

‘No, thank you. I have my car.’

‘Someone said you brought the conductor down from London,’ said Helen’s husband Christopher.

‘I did, but he is going back by train.’

‘So you will be down for a few days?’

‘Probably.’

‘What’s his name again, this conductor?’ asked Christopher.

‘Composer,’ corrected Helen.

‘Both.’ Laura smiled at Helen.

‘D’you mean he wrote that stuff, then conducted it?’ Christopher towered over Laura. ‘You do find yourself the most curious boyfriends.’

‘So you did not like it.’

‘Not much. Well, not at all. I’m not up to this modern stuff.’

‘People said the same about Mozart. Come on, Christopher, we shall be—’ Helen started to move.

‘But what’s his name? I’ve lost my programme and came without my glasses.’

‘Clug,’ said Laura.

‘Clug?’

‘To rhyme with plug.’

‘Oh! Oh, all right darling, I’m coming.’ Christopher Peel allowed himself to be led away. ‘Is the fellow a Communist?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Probably.’

‘—wouldn’t be allowed out of Romania if he were not.’

Helen belonged to the class of English women who are taught to elocute clearly at an early age, thought Laura, listening to Helen’s voice calling back, ‘Goodnight,’ as she and her husband went out into the cold.

Waiting for Clug to free himself of admirers Laura speculated idly on the gap there would be in her life with Clug returned to Romania. It had been an agreeable intermezzo, she thought, of just the right length, no time to get bored.