Annabel is better-looking than Marion. Jomier can see that she must have been pretty when she was young. Pretty as a picture. A Boucher. A Watteau. Had Rupert seen her with plump thighs and pink nipples flying through the air on a garlanded swing? Or had he considered her a safe investment? A wife who would look good and never stray? Unlike the pretty women painted by Boucher and Watteau, Annabel is not a coquette. There is not a trace of flirtation in her manner. Her demeanour is of the Dutch School – more a Rembrandt or a Vermeer. Has she ever been unfaithful to her husband? Has she ever been tempted? Have the Valmonts who made a play for her been thwarted by her implacable dullness? She is telling Jomier about her grandchildren. Rosie has been offered a place at Bute House but inexplicably they – her son and daughter-in-law – are determined to send her to Norland Place. Certainly, Norland Place is closer to their house in W10 but Cynthia doesn’t work and so could easily take her to Bute House in the Prius or share a school run with other Bute House parents.

Jomier is prepared to summon up views on the rival claims for excellence of Norland Place or Bute House – or, for that matter, Wetherby’s, Notting Hill Prep, Bassett House, the Hall – but his mind grows numb. It is not the subject matter that deadens his brain but Annabel’s monotonous tone of voice. There is no cadence. No inflexion. No puff comes from the lungs to give an emphasis to this syllable or that. The sound is hypnotically dreary. Jomier feels himself falling into a trance.

‘You may not like this.’ Jomier is saved from stupor by Judith’s voice. She has walked the full length of the table carrying two plates – one for Annabel, one for him. She places them before them.

Jomier looks down at what is on his plate. He recognises the mound of wild rice, the sprigs of broccoli, even the cubes of glazed marrow; but what are the browned rectangles lying on top of the rice? He turns to Marion. ‘Are these fish fingers?’

Hilarious laughter. ‘God forbid! It’s grilled tofu.’

‘Tofu?’

‘You must have had tofu before. Stir-fried in a Thai restaurant? It’s normally tasteless but this –’ Marion pokes the rectangle of tofu with her knife – ‘has been soaked overnight in an achiote marinade. Achiote powder, cayenne pepper, crushed garlic, salt, pepper, brown sugar . . .’

‘What is achiote?’ asks Jomier.

‘God knows. Some spice from the rainforests. You’ll have to ask Jude. It’s actually quite yummy. It’s certainly better than her Peruvian lasagne.’

‘Does she never cook meat?’