Oh, she said quickly, drawing herself forward, so that she was present, so that he wouldn’t be deceived by her eyes. Tell me about yourself, do, Mr – Mr Collins. When you say rehearsals now? she asked.

Across the space that lay between their two chairs, the scent of a hair oil had drifted, like in an advertisement, the advertisement in a bus, a young man stroking his hair, that was just too smooth, you could smell the sleekness, you could smell the cheap bottle that stood in the bathroom beside the shaving mirror. Wally Collins was sleek and scented. But she watched him carefully, in his mauve-flecked suit, it was Mrs Standish playing a part that she had played already many times, this unexpected revival that the evening had suddenly given her, the hands sank again into plush, sitting by supper-light, sitting forward to commiserate and understand.

Wally Collins shifted the shape of his throat. As if he were composing something, perhaps a justification of himself.

It’s nothing much, Wally said. It’s clubs. It’s the Café Vendôme right now. You’ll find me on the saxophone.

The fantastic nature of the situation, or was it sherry, began to go to Mrs Standish’s head.

Now that is most, most entertaining, she said. You must tell me more. A saxophone!

It warmed him to hear, to watch a hand fiddle about with that rose she wore, the big, creamy, blowzy rose that was fixed just underneath the works. He liked to talk about himself. He liked to talk to women, though the sort of dames was mostly not, well, quite like this. She had class. The greeny, creamy rose fitted snugly where the hand pointed. A bit of a back number in the face, the sort that hadn’t the courage even on an afternoon alone not to take a spit at the mascara, who put a dab here and there for old time’s sake; she still got through nicely on the bust, had a bit of carriage to her name, you remembered you wasn’t exactly addressing the wall.

It’s mostly been the same, he said, leaning forward to talk at a rose. Yes, Mrs Standish. Clubs, and a touch of vaudeville. Not so hot, the vaudeville. One- and two-night Middle Western stands. But I guess I get a kick out of just being this. Couldn’t lay in bed with something doing outside, and lights. I guess it’s the lights. Take you out of yourself. And the music. Gee, it’s kind of hard, Mrs Standish, to put.

He emphasized the difficulty by putting a hand on the pit of his stomach. She watched the hand, the little black hairs below the cuff. I should be repelled by this, felt Mrs Standish, and the common voice, by the whole crashing discordant note upsetting what one likes to think of as the harmony of a room. But in search, she found no displeasure, only a mild relief, to be able to follow up the cue, the many cues of her own superannuated play.