Pascal, who continued after several months to find David’s rudeness appealing, smiled and nodded. Flora continued to read the menu: she did not think Michael Fenwick worth her attention. And she was, basically, right. I had in fact met him once before, at a party; he was a middle-aged man, probably a little over forty, and he had a quality of fleshy heavy childishness that I found quite frightening. I did not like him: the way he seemed perpetually to extend a sentimental, boneless arm, pleading for approval, upset me. I like to feel that my words or gestures are going to bounce brightly, harmlessly back at me, but with a man like Michael they sink into some warm, vulnerable tissue, wounding, however harmless in intention, as they go. He always plays on stage big, heavy, strong men, and is not at all bad at it; but, oh, the floppy frightful contrast in the wings.

Michael was sitting with this girl, who seemed at first glance to be far more worthy of inspection. Michael introduced her, and her name rang an immediate and reverberating bell.

“This is Sophy Brent,” he said, “Sophy, David and Emma Evans. David is playing in The Clandestine Marriage; you knew that, didn’t you?”

“And you, of course, are playing Fanny,” said David, staring at her with his usual offensive flattery. And for once I did not blame him: I could not take my eyes off her myself. She was wearing a white head-square and a pale grey mackintosh, unbuttoned over a delightful brown jersey. Under the head-square her hair leaped strenuously upwards, thick, dark hair, too strong for the silk to flatten. She had a perfectly shaped face: huge brown eyes, long brown cheeks and very wide lips, painted in a dazzling shade of orange. A full, gentle, voracious, suggestive face, and for some reason an obviously stupid one. I cannot think why I was so certain at first sight of her relative stupidity: it surely cannot have been the old adage about beauty and brains, which I have seen disproved both ways often enough. And her clothes were extremely good. I do not remember that I have ever seen Sophy wear anything frightful, except for one patterned shirt which she wore once and then immediately abandoned. It may have been something in the lavishness of her appearance, in the high gloss on her and the undue brightness of her nails that gave me the warning; or perhaps she was merely the perfection of a type with which the theatre is filled, the girl who is in the theatre because she thinks her looks are too good to waste at home. Sophy dresses well, her accent and voice are all that they should be and yet somewhere underneath it all everyone can sense something wild and ripe that gives her away.