“I agree. I have no time for a man who says he’s not interested in money. It means he has no self-respect. I myself only write for money these days. Certainly not for the pleasure of it.” A tear appeared in his eye. “No, that went out of it a long time ago. Mostly I write because I’ve always done it. Because I can’t think what the hell else to do. Unfortunately, I have never been able to persuade myself that anything else mattered. I’m eighty-two years old, Herr Wolf. Writing has become a habit, a discipline, and, to some extent, a compulsion, but I certainly wouldn’t give what I write to anyone for free.”

“Are you working on anything at the moment, sir?”

“A book of essays, which is to say, nothing at all of any consequence. Essays are like politicians. They want to change things and I’m not much interested in any change at my age.”

A large and lumpish man with bad psoriasis and wearing a garishly colored shirt appeared and went straight to the drinks tray, where he mixed himself a drink as if too impatient to wait for the butler to fix one for him.

“This is my friend Alan,” said Maugham, reverting to English. “Alan, do come and say hello to a friend of Robin’s. Walter Wolf. He’s German and we’re hoping he’s going to play a couple of rubbers with us after dinner.”

The lumpish man came and shook hands just as Robin Maugham reappeared and announced that dinner was ready.

“Thank God,” said Maugham.

“Ronnie Neame rang when you were in the bath,” the lumpish man told Maugham. “It seems that MGM are going to make Painted Veil but want a different title. They want to call it The Seventh Sin.”

“Ugh.” Maugham grimaced. “That’s a fucking awful title.”

“It’s the seventh commandment,” said Robin.

“I don’t care if it’s in the Treaty of Versailles. No one’s shocked by adultery these days. Not since the war. Adultery’s common. After Auschwitz, adultery’s a minor misdemeanor. You mark my words: The film will make a loss.”

We went into dinner.

Robin Maugham had not exaggerated; his uncle kept an excellent table. Dinner was eggs in aspic jelly, chicken Maryland, tiny wild strawberries, avocado ice cream—which I didn’t care for—all washed down with an excellent Puligny and then an even better Sauternes. Afterward, Maugham lit a pipe, fixed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles onto his nose, and led the way to the card table, where I partnered Robin and we played and lost two rubbers. The old man was a bridge demon.