Jomier is convinced. Or he pretends to be convinced. He does not give a toss about Beresford’s carbon footprint. He does not particularly care about global warming. Après moi le deluge. Does the world deserve to continue? If there was a Hebrew deity, a ‘He Who Is’, looking down at humanity in the twenty-first century, would he not conclude that things were just as bad as they were prior to the Flood? The rich shopping in Bond Street or the rue de Rivoli for £2,000 handbags and £20,000 watches while children in Africa sift the dirt for grains of wheat? What would he make of the massacre of the innocents in utero; or the scientific experiments on a week-old embryo that might be an incipient Vermeer or Tolstoy or, following the Hebrew deity’s way of thinking, the yet-to-come Messiah himself? Is it not time to wrap up the human project? To turn up the temperature of the solar winds and let humanity frazzle? ‘No more water. The fire next time.’

Jomier has not expressed this view to Judith. First, it would expose him to the charge of inconsistency: he does not believe in a Hebrew deity or any other kind of deity – neither a He nor a She nor an It who is. Second, he fears that an admission of indifference about the fate of the universe would be a deal-breaker: no more movies or Indians with Judith; no more Kama Sutra sex. How could Jomier (she would ask, and Jomier puts the question to himself) deny his children and grandchildren the right to enjoy the life that he has enjoyed? Cut short little Samantha’s progress from Norland Place to St Paul’s to Oxford to a profession to a marriage to a fund manager and a daughter who goes to Norland Place and St Paul’s and Oxford and a profession . . . ad infinitum? Just because Jomier’s life has turned sour does not give him the right to deny others a chance to be happy. And surely Jomier’s life is no longer sour. It has turned sweet again. He has Judith.

The telephone rings. It is Henry. ‘Dad, I’m worried about Louisa.’

Jomier listens. He accepts that Henry is worried because he so rarely rings Jomier from his bank. ‘Is she no better?’

‘She seems to be worse and I really don’t know if the doctors out there are any good.’

Out there. Argentina. A long way away. Jomier has spoken to Louisa; she has told him of her tiresome illness. ‘It’s not the Third World,’ says Jomier.

‘They seem to be thrashing around,’ says Henry. ‘At first they said it was glandular fever – the Epstein–Barr virus. Now they’re talking about ME.’

‘Have you spoken to Jimmy?’

‘Yes. He sounds alarmed. Apparently she’s getting weaker by the day.’

‘I’ll ring her,’ says Jomier.

‘Persuade her to come to London,’ says Henry.