‘No, of course we’re not.’ Mrs Kerr, propping up her parasol against a table, positively beamed. The table was as small as a mushroom between them; she looked helplessly at her handbag, then passed it over to Sydney to be disposed of, and drawing off her gloves eagerly looked round to see what other people were eating. ‘I’m so seldom allowed to do this. Ronald is spending his own sort of morning – a very genuine dead villa – the Riviera, you see, is so tinny’ – she tapped the table – ‘so why shouldn’t I?’

‘I never knew this was your sort of morning. We might often have come here.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Kerr, ‘that I hardly liked to suggest it. I could never, of course, suggest it to Ronald … Oh, vermouth? You are ascetic! I should like some chocolate. Will you drink very slowly, then we shan’t have to go?’

‘Oh! But weren’t we ——?’

‘But where is there to go? And I mean, why should we? But of course, my dear, I will go anywhere. This is really your morning. If I didn’t spoil you, you would never come near me now. I don’t know what you’ve been doing; I never see you – Oh, look, there’s Veronica Lawrence with that dreadful young man. What unnatural tastes she’s got; why doesn’t she run after Ronald?’

‘It would be very discouraging.’

‘I don’t see why it should be; Ronald’s rather susceptible.’ Mrs Kerr, her folded hands on the table, sat looking sideways, absorbed. ‘He is looking at her with the most awful expression, with cream on his chin. Isn’t passion debasing? Tell me, Sydney, are that couple engaged?’

‘Oh, probably.’ Sydney looked conscious.

‘Oh, does she tell you these things?’ asked Mrs Kerr curiously. ‘What a queer friendship! Does she show how tremendously sorry she is for you, or is she too deep? What does she say about me? It would amuse me to know.’

‘But why should we discuss you?’

‘I can’t think. But you must talk personalities, surely … Isn’t she really rather a common little thing?’

‘She rather attracts me.’

‘Oh, if she only attracts you … It matters much more whom she likes. Will you look for a plate and choose us both some pâtisserie – nothing too sweet?’ Sydney with a dazzled blank feeling got up indecisively. ‘You know what I like – you’ve an instinct.’ Mrs Kerr, looking up for a moment, let her general vague smile quickly be personal, and gave Sydney a glimpse of her old mood, fleetingly, yet so that to turn away was an agony. ‘Do go, won’t you?’ she urged, with such a promise implicit that the coming back would be memorable that Sydney left forthwith, slipping between the chair-backs to the shop door and the crowded counter.