“Anyway, it’s very unfair of you to say that the thought of your husband would never have crossed my mind if I hadn’t seen him at that party. I think he’s a very good actor, don’t you?”

“Naturally.”

“You know, Mrs. Evans,” said Wyndham Farrar, using this term of address with some sinister intent, “you can say what you like, but I’m sure you must be an actress. I know I’ve seen your face somewhere before. No, no, I don’t mean at Danny Owen’s party. I’ve seen you somewhere else.”

“Oh no you haven’t,” I said. “I can assure you that you haven’t. I would have remembered if you had. I remember everything.”

“And you’re not an actress?”

“No. Certainly not.”

“I can’t imagine why you’re not an actress. You look as though you ought to be an actress,” he said perseveringly, and I said:

“The stage doesn’t interest me, I’m just not interested,” and I started to move away: already I could feel the pointless wheels in that piece of dud machinery beginning to turn, that dud machine, which, like a failed effort at perpetual motion, will tick for a little and then stop and stick and rust.

“Well,” he said, “be that as it may, and whatever your interests, and I’m sure that you must have some, I expect I shall see more of you in the next few months. After all, you have to be friendly in a place like this, don’t you? In such a small town?”

“You could see it that way,” I said, irresistibly turning from the green baize of the noticeboard to meet, for the first time, his attention: a mistake, my first real mistake, for there was, I thought, in his eyes and the ugly map of his face the kind of intention to which I am incapable of saying no, the kind of domineering, warlike intention that stiffens me throughout.