Polite interest from Ingestree, and delicately inquisitive probings as to what this pilgrimage might be.

“Something associated with a turning-point in my life,” said Magnus. “I feel that one should not be neglectful of such observances.”

Was it anything with which the B.B.C. could be helpful, Ingestree asked.

“No, not at all,” said Magnus. “I simply want to lay some flowers at the foot of a monument.”

Surely, Ingestree persisted, Magnus would permit somebody from the publicity department, or from a newspaper, to get a picture of this charming moment? It could be so helpful later, when it was necessary to work up enthusiasm for the film.

Magnus was coy. He would prefer not to make public a private act of gratitude and respect. But he was willing to admit, among friends, that what he meant to do was part of the subtext of the film; an act related to his own career; something he did whenever he found himself in London.

He had now gone so far that it was plain he wanted to be coaxed, and Ingestree coaxed him with a mixture of affection and respect that was worthy of admiration. It was plain to be seen how Ingestree had not merely survived, but thriven, in the desperate world of television. It was not long before Magnus yielded, as I suppose he meant to do from the beginning.

“It’s nothing in the least extraordinary. I’m going to lay a few yellow roses—I hope I can get yellow ones—at the foot of the monument to Henry Irving behind the National Portrait Gallery. You know it. It’s one of the best-known monuments in London. Irving, splendid and gracious, in his academical robes, looking up Charing Cross Road. I promised Milady I’d do that, in her name and my own, if I ever came to the point in life where I could afford such gestures. And I have. And so I shall.”

“Now you really mustn’t tease us any more,” said Ingestree. “We must be told. Who is Milady?”

“Lady Tresize,” said Magnus, and there was no hint of banter in his voice any longer. He was solemn. But Ingestree hooted with laughter.

“My God!” he said, “You don’t mean Old Mother Tresize? Old Nan? You knew her?”

“Better than you apparently did,” said Magnus. “She was a dear friend of mine, and very good to me when I needed a friend. She was one of Irving’s protégées, and in her name I do honour to his memory.”

“Well—I apologize. I apologize profoundly. I never knew her well, though I saw something of her. You’ll admit she was rather a joke as an actress.”

“Perhaps. Though I saw her give some remarkable performances. She didn’t always get parts that were suited to her.”

“I can’t imagine what parts could ever have suited her. It’s usually admitted she held the old man back. Dragged him down, in fact. He really may have been good, once. If he’d had a decent leading lady he mightn’t have ended up as he did.”