“I’ll take you,” he said. “Sometime during the season I’ll take you to Wales.” We smiled at each other, over Flora’s small dark head: like children, we were both of us easily cheered or bribed by the promise of an excursion.

Then we went to the chemist’s to buy a packet of cleansing tissues, which I did not really need, but I always feel that I should avail myself of the facilities of public places. On the way back to our platform we passed a poster for the Hereford Festival; it was a well-designed piece of work. Wyndham Farrar, it said in very large letters, and in almost as large letters the names of his artists: Natalie Winter, Peter Yates, Felicity White, David Evans, Neville Grierson, all with prominent billing. We stood and stared at it. David was delighted, though as ever too suspicious of me to reveal it. There was a list of the plays there, too, about which I knew little: The Clandestine Marriage, The White Devil, The Maple Tree. As we finally got on to the train, I asked David about them.

“What’s The White Devil about?” I asked him as we settled down.

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “I’ve never read it.”

“That’s nothing to be proud of.”

“I’m not proud of it. I just haven’t read it, that’s all.”

“What’s your part about then?”

“It’s the best part in the play.”

“How do you know if you haven’t read the thing?”

“I can tell from looking at it. It’s the longest. And Wyndham said it was the best.”

“Don’t be so gullible, he obviously says that to everyone.”

“Anyway, it’s a very good part. It’s Natalie Winter’s brother.”

“How nice for you. Nice or nasty?”

“Definitely nasty. A rotten bastard and a social climber and a pimp.”

“Very suitable,” I said.

“And a very nice death scene.”

“Really?”

“I die on stage.”

“That should be very sweet and charming,” I said, and Flora, who had been listening intently, said with sudden yearning, “Sweeties, sweeties,” having in a truly significant fashion extracted from our altercation the one word which she thought might concern her. I did not want to start on the inevitable stickiness so early in the journey, but the sight of her earnest small face, prepared to express the greatest depth of tragic deprivation, made me hunt in my handbag for a tube of mints. I spoil the child, for I can never believe the passion she expresses about sweets, toys, the ducks in the park or a dropped and dirtied apple is as transient and shallow as it clearly must be. I take her too seriously, my daughter, as I take all others.