At the trestle table where the lemonades were set out, she found an old school friend and they started gossiping about mutual acquaintances. Arthur found Peter in a corner holding court to a group of American servicemen on the superior merits of cricket as opposed to baseball. Jack was talking to an older US officer. He spotted Arthur and hailed him but Arthur waved and slipped out to the hallway. It was subdued in comparison to the ballroom, no footmen waiting for them now.

Outside, it was still light, although it must have been past nine o’clock. All along the driveway and away to his right, he noticed there were glass bulbs strung up in the gardens, glowing pale yellow in the slight dimming of the night. Here and there, couples were strolling among them, drinks in their hands, lit up softly like people in a painting.

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ It was Muriel. She came and stood next to him in the porch. ‘Midsummer’s Night an’ all.’

‘Aren’t you cold?’ She was just in her dress, her thin white arms exposed. It was cooler now; a slight breeze was catching the trees and ruffling the young leaves.

‘I’m fine, got this,’ she said, and held up her cigarette. But he took his jacket off and put it around her shoulders.

‘You’re a gentleman, Arthur Silver, I always said you were.’ How much easier it would be for him if he was a real gentleman. ‘Now are you going to tell me about the service or do I have to make it up myself?’

‘There’s not much to tell—’ He stopped himself. ‘Sorry, it’s just that I never went anywhere interesting. Just Yorkshire and Scotland. They did teach us to turn bed corners. And I know a lot about venereal disease.’

Her face burst open in a cackle of laughter. He smiled, pleased with the effect.

‘Did you meet any girls then?’

‘No,’ he said quickly, but his face felt warm. It was as if she could see into his head and see him, flesh exposed, and the girl, the prostitute, on her back. Muriel narrowed her eyes. His mind flashed with images of the girl with the scar, the dim room, her stockings hanging over the chair. ‘Never got the chance to put my learning into action,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.

‘Now, Arthur, be honest, are you courting Miss Frost? I saw you with her, sitting out. Don’t she like dancing?’ She was looking up at him with a mock innocence, an almost-smirk at the corners of her mouth.

‘We did dance, at the beginning. I’m not very good, you know. I did tell you.’

‘All Englishmen say they can’t dance. It’s because they don’t try. The Americans are no better but at least they give it a go. What about that Verity then? You always liked her.’