Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed the dancers. In the throng he spotted Muriel, spinning around with one of the many Americans. He’d forgotten she’d told him she would be here. Peter was over with a group of them playing up to their idea of an English gentleman farmer. He seemed to be finding them as hilarious as they found him. Arthur imagined him talking about hunting, fishing and the wonder and mystery of Norfolk. Watching Peter’s countryman act gave him again the twinge of fear for his friend. There was truth in it but it was a stereotype of the masculine country gent that hid the real Peter. This was the Peter who cared more about the cows he milked than killing animals for sport. He turned back to the dance.

Muriel’s legs were moving so fast it hurt his eyes to watch them. She was wearing a white polka dot dress with a red sash, which matched her red lips. She caught his eye and waved at him. He raised a hand involuntarily.

‘Is that Muriel Gittings?’ said Verity.

‘Yes,’ he said, still watching.

‘I’m surprised she’s here.’

He smiled to himself. Verity’s mouth twitched.

‘I think they invited all the young people, Ver, not just the debutantes.’

‘I’m not a deb.’

He laughed. ‘No, but you act like one.’

She looked at him quickly, the pinkness in her cheeks heightened. ‘I know you think I’m a frightful snob, Arty, but we are quite… different.’

‘We didn’t used to be.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean you, you’re…’

‘What am I?’

She was quite pink now and he was rather enjoying her discomfort. ‘You’re very dear to me,’ she said quietly and took out a packet of cigarettes from her little bag.

He pinched her arm. ‘Am I dear enough to dance with?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, but if you don’t mind, I’m quite fagged. Happy just to sit out for a bit.’

Someone else was dancing with Muriel now. They whirled out of sight behind the other dancers but then they came back into view, the two of them laughing. He saw it was Jack. The American gave him an ironic salute and Arthur half raised a hand in reply.

‘Funny how we’re in thrall to them when we know they’re up to something deadly.’

‘In thrall to whom?’

‘The Americans. “Sleepwalking into the Apocalypse.” It would make a good headline, don’t you think?’

Verity’s face was stiff, her cigarette held hanging in the air.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Shall we go and get a drink?’ She stood up, the blue dress rustling, and held out her arm rigidly for him to take.