A few moments after he had gone, a large hand reached around the easel and carefully set the pencil drawing back against the wall, revealing a disembodied pair of legs. My guest appeared before me in a series of limbs, first one arm, then legs, then the other arm, until he stepped out from his hiding place and gravitated to what he clearly regarded as his natural home at the centre of the room.

‘What an arse that man is,’ he remarked cordially. ‘All absolute rubbish. I heard him whispering, and whatever he said you mustn’t believe it. He’s one of those people who simply cannot reconcile themselves to the fact that someone somewhere may be having a jolly time.’

Beneath his gay bravado I sensed genuine relief, and I realized he must have been very frightened of discovery. He was exaggerating his nonchalance in the aftermath of danger, a male habit I recognized from the older boys at school. I thought his choice of words slightly odd. I was soon to discover that Michael affected a vocabulary which he thought gave him a dense, solid air of tasteful maturity, like the thick carved legs of an oaken dining table in some venerable London club.

‘He’s been after us all since last year, and the fact that he can’t get his grubby little paws on us drives him wild. From the way he puffed up those stairs, I should say he’s about due for a coronary infarct.’

I saw that I was expected to laugh a little at the man’s expense. I did not want to, as I had found him kind, but I immediately sensed that Michael was the type of person it would be useful to know. I gratified him with the required laugh, feeling guilty as I did so, as if my host at a party had made a vaguely racist joke, and I had let politeness get the better of my distaste. When he saw my reaction his expression shifted from one of pronounced mockery to a kind of genial, avuncular approval.

‘You did rather well, I must say. He didn’t exactly put on the thumbscrews, but he can be a rather unsettling fellow.’