“No, indeed I don’t, Mr. Scriven. And I hope you’ll take the nasty dirty thing away soon. You’ll be getting me into trouble.”

“Darling Mrs. Brown, yes, of course we’ll take it away if you’re really sure you don’t like it.”

Edward Blake was in the sitting-room, with a woman. Eric was rather surprised to recognise her as a painter whom he’d met once or twice at Aunt Mary’s last Vac. Her name was Margaret Lanwin. Aunt Mary was having a show of her pictures at the Gallery. She smiled when they shook hands, as much as to say: I expect you’re wondering why I’m here. Eric remembered that he had liked her.

“Edward’s been showing me a perfectly marvellous new cocktail,” said Maurice. “What’s it called, Edward?”

“Satan’s Kiss,” said Edward Blake.

He had greeted Eric quite warmly, and yet, as Eric always felt, with a sarcastic grin. He looked very ill, iller than ever. His face was streakily grey, as though his cheeks had been rubbed with an india-rubber, and there were sharp lines on either side of his mouth. His big pale eyes were mocking and full of light. His sallow nicotine-stained fingers were mere bones. The signet ring was quite loose on his hand, and Eric noticed how it shook as he lifted his glass.

“Is there any left?” Maurice asked.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Well, be an angel and make some more.”

“I’m afraid we’ve used all the Angostura Bitters.”

“It won’t be quite the same kind of kiss as the last,” said Margaret Lanwin.

“No two kisses are alike,” said Edward.

As he talked, his mouth gave a nervous sideways twitch and he spoke deliberately, as though he had to concentrate on pronouncing the words. It produced the effect of something said in a foreign language.

Eric sipped the cocktail, which was, he thought, very nasty. It tasted rather like cough-mixture. But Maurice declared it was even better than the last.

“How on earth do you do it, Edward? You are marvellous.”

Edward didn’t answer. He smiled.

“If it’s not a terribly rude thing to say, Maurice,” said Margaret Lanwin, “I’m nearly dying of hunger. All those fascinating things on the sideboard are making my mouth water.”

“I hope you don’t mind all this cold stuff,” said Maurice.

But he really apologised to Edward, not to Margaret.

At lunch, Edward ate scarcely anything, although he refused nothing. He drank a great deal—first of College ale, which Eric found terrifically strong; then of brandy, which Maurice produced with cigars. As he drank he seemed to become steadier. His hand no longer shook.

Maurice was telling him about Currie’s Sunbeam. “By God,” said Maurice, “that was a marvellous bus. You know, Edward, you ought to get a car.”

“What does one do with a car?” Edward asked.