He crammed his hat on his head. ‘Good day to you,’ he said, and he turned and strode off across the square.

Harry had been celibate for a long time. As he walked angrily through the streets of London in the direction of Chelsea, he cursed himself for ever having entered into an engagement with one such as Lady Rose Summer. She was beautiful, yes, but she was as cold as ice.

Halfway home, he changed his mind and set off to The Club. It was always known simply as The Club and was considered less stuffy than White’s or Brooks’s.

He entered the coffee-room and was greeted by a tall figure. ‘Good God, old man, is it really you? I thought you had been killed at Magersfontein!’

Harry’s face lightened as he recognized Colonel Jimmy Frent-Winston. Jimmy now looked like a rakish man-about-town. He had a high aquiline profile and bold blue eyes. ‘Sit down, Harry,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a bottle of champagne.’

‘Still in the army?’ asked Harry.

‘Home on leave. Want to kick up my heels a bit. You’re engaged, I hear.’

‘Not working out,’ said Harry, suddenly wanting to confide in someone.

‘All, well, take my advice and cut and run.’

They drank champagne and swapped war stories as the day drew on towards evening.

‘I say,’ said Jimmy. ‘I know just the thing to end the day. Let’s go to The Empire and find ourselves a pair of dazzlers.’

The Empire music hall, a dream of blue and gold, was a most luxurious place. But its main attraction was the Promenade. The Promenade was where the aristocrats of prostitution paraded: blondes, brunettes and redheads, moving with a sort of feline grace and all with excellent manners. They never accosted a man; at the most he might feel the touch of a hand against his or the faint pressure of a silk-clad body as he stood at the rail watching the show below. As they moved to and fro, their jewels glittered, their silks swished and they exuded the scent of frangipani or patchouli.

In 1894, their presence had been attacked by a Mrs Ormiston Chant, crying ‘white slavery’. She and her supporters battled long and hard, but the assault failed completely. All Mrs Ormiston Chant achieved was to become the most popular guy at the next Fifth of November, where she was burnt in effigy.

Harry hesitated. His few liaisons had been with respectable women, none of them ever serious. But Rose had wounded his pride and, he felt, his manhood. Besides, he had drunk rather a lot.

They took a cab. Harry was glad of Jimmy’s company. He had been working so hard that he had had little time for friends.

The Empire declared itself a club, and Jimmy insisted on paying the entrance fee. It was full as usual, presided over by the manager, Mr Hitchins, who ejected the rowdy with one white kid glove on the culprit’s shoulder. Most of the ejected simply went round to the side door and paid five shillings to get back in.