I got Joe to bed after half an hour more of feeding; he was far too small to notice my mood, fortunately, though he did wake up later with wind. Then I went downstairs again and walked up and down the living room and thought. I thought about Hereford, and David’s career, and Wyndham Farrar. I had met Wyndham Farrar only once in my life before, though naturally I knew all about him, as did anyone who was connected with the theatre. And may I make it clear that I was connected only by marriage, I have no aspirations in that direction myself, though I have aspirations towards gloss, which can be mistaken for the same thing. Wyndham Farrar, in any case, was a name which one could not fail to recognize. He was a director, and everything he did, good or bad, achieved a certain distinction: he was a freelancer, and had never associated himself with any of the trends or mass managements of the theatre, but would turn up from time to time in unexpected countries with unexpected plays, the odd bad film or good television production, and so on. Most people seemed to have worked with him at some time or another, and everyone spoke of him either with awe or admiration. I could never work out whether he was what in the theatre passes for an intellectual, or whether he was simply a misfit, or whether he had enough private means not to have to work in the usual humdrum West End, television contract fashion. However he had done it, he had managed to make himself accepted as some sort of important and unpredictable figure, whose moves were always worth following and whose judgement was always of interest; and certainly the first time I met him I noticed him as one would notice a significant person. I went out of my way at this meeting not to be noticed by him, as I was very pregnant at the time: it was just before Joe was born. But I paid attention.