Ralph Christie has made himself comfortable in the armchair. He is a comfortable sort of man, confident in his skin, with a profile that announces his impeccable lineage. He is already part of the family, at ease with her parents in a way that she has never managed to be since she began voicing her own ‘radical’ opinions. He talks affably with her father about politics, the party, the club; he was once thought of as Gerald’s protégé, but recently he has caught the eye of even more significant players, and now, after a by-election and a safe seat, there is talk of a position for him within the next government – Westminster’s rising star. He teases Isabel, gently, but in such a way that makes her simper like a debutante.

‘I’m minded to agree with your father,’ he says, taking a sip of his whisky. Isabel has made sure that the best-cut glasses have been put out. ‘I like it already. Don’t let my opinion hold you back if you wish to ape the fashions’ – he laughs into the glass – ‘but I’m quite sure that you won’t.’

A small mouthful of sherry makes its glowing journey down Harriet’s throat, and she doesn’t respond. The drawing room has been lit softly, the lamps turned down low, setting everyone at their best advantage. The thick green velvet curtains have shut out the February night and their neighbours on the square, cocooning them together. It is too warm. It is always too warm in this room.

‘But I really ought to have asked: how was your day, Harriet?’ The thorny issue of hairstyles has reached a diplomatic conclusion, as far as Ralph is concerned. ‘How is life at the Kensington Gazette? Any exclusive headlines for us?’