“It was in my bag when. Wilf, sir, I have to apologize sincerely. I was not myself. It was just anxiety for I do sincerely see my life’s work or as one might say my duty to be the careful investigation of—”

“I know, I know. After dinner.”

“—and apologize for what I said.”

“For calling me a mother-fucking bastard?”

There was a cry of delight from the doorway behind us. Johnny St John John and Gabriel Clayton were coming through it.

“Rick Tucker, you didn’t!”

“Why, hullo there.”

“Gabriel, Johnny, Rick. Everybody know each other?”

Beside Johnny’s lanky figure Gabriel looked short but he wasn’t. He was medium-height and broad as befits a sculptor. He was a bit round-shouldered and this, with his lowering head, gave him some resemblance to a bull. He knew this and was not displeased by it. Now he laid his fist on his forehead in what he thought was the salute of one artist to another then turned back to the others.

“‘Mother-fucking’,” he said. “I see it as a group. Bronze. We can have it in the other alcove opposite Psyche. Wilf will pay. Much more distinguished than hanging on the wall among all those dreary belles-lettrists.”

“Gabriel, dear, do us a preliminary sketch at once! Wilf will pose.”

“He bloody won’t.”

“I haven’t seen you since Portugal, Wilf.”

“I never met you in Portugal!”

“He goes on like this, Rick, you know.”

“Yes, sir, I do know. It’s remarkable.”

“I put you to bed, Wilf. You owe me a meal. I will collect tonight.”

“Oh God.”

“Me too, Wilf, dear. In view of the positively penetrating analyses of your character with which I have favoured you on this shore or that—”

“Johnny St John John will now favour us with an example of his penetration.”

“Another group, Gabriel. White marble, for purity.”

“Ha et cetera.”

“You are utterly penetrable Wilfred. You’d be perfectly happy with my little homilies if instead of calling you Rudesby I’d called you cher maître, wouldn’t you now? We all have our ambitions such as they are—a K, perhaps, eh, Wilf? No? All passion spent?”

“You’re too clever by half.”

Gabriel was already coming back from the bar with two open bottles of claret held cleverly by their necks in either hand.

“This is generous of you, Wilf.”

“So I see.”

“Glasses, Johnny!”

“I go, I go. Swifter than et cetera.”

“You are Rick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you wealthy?”

“No, sir.”

“The day of the rich Americans is past, I’m afraid.”

“No, sir, it isn’t, sir!”

“I am looking for a rich American. Arabs don’t go in for sculpture except as an investment.”

“He’s not wealthy, Gabriel. He’s a poor white like the rest of us.”

“This man thinks he’s poor, Rick. He’s kept himself, to say nothing of his chums, for a third of a century in booze and travel if nothing else. He’s only got to tell them there’s something for sale and the presses roll, banks gape, reviewers sharpen their pencils—”