I was deeply touched by the fact that he had come back for us. For a moment, all was forgiven. Later, when things became clear, remembering it was like swigging from a bottle of wine in the full anticipation of pleasure, and finding the bitter, ruinous taste of vinegar.

‘Did he really say that? That he needed us? At least now we can pay for him.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘at least we can keep him. Keep him safe.’

‘I mean, we’re still rich.’

She did not say anything, but nodded.

‘I want to see him,’ I said.

‘Be my guest. I’m going to get some sleep.’ She rose from her sitting position on the steps, slumping forwards to get going down the stairs. Worry had worn her edges smooth – and made her unbearably sexy. It gave her an air of desperation, as if she was ripe for exploitation, and it would be the man’s choice whether to protect or abuse her. At the same time she had the armature of her will bearing her up. She possessed all the heroism of the doomed altruist.

I knocked on Francis’s door as I opened it. He was unpacking his things. His room looked tidy, and for some reason that made me afraid for him. He had a whole new wardrobe and a set of matching luggage I had never seen before, slightly scuffed and battered. He turned around as I came in and smiled at me as if I had gone out for something five minutes previously, and we were about to resume a conversation. I tried to see if there was anything noticeably different in his face, anything that would suggest the same sort of emotional journey that I had been through over the summer. He looked perfectly happy, quite at ease, but I thought there was something manic about his happiness. If what Jessica had told me was even halfway true, his mood was dislocated from the socket of his circumstances. He had lost some weight, and his eyes were tired. All the resentment I had fostered towards him in my solitude and all my own unhappiness dispersed at the sight of him, or rather they did not disperse, but wearily took their place at the back of the queue behind my concern for him. It was simply not appropriate to make Francis responsible for those feelings. It would be like charging a child for the value of an antique vase he had broken whilst playing.

‘Hello, James. You have to buy it second hand,’ he said, indicating the trunks and bags, ‘it looks so vulgar new, and none of the hotel staff will take care of you. New luggage means new money, you see. Papa taught me that.’

‘Francis, Jessica tells me you’re broke. What will you do for clothes next season?’

‘Ah, but this time around I’ve been clever. I made classic choices when I still had the cash, you see? Wellcut suits in neutral colours, summer and winter, handmade shoes, wool and cashmere. Nothing faddy, it should last me for years.’ He picked up items from the bag in a distracted fashion, and allowed them to fall back in.