“Lime and ginger ale, please.”

“Wilf! Are you all right?”

“Just laying off for a bit. Johnny, what’s happened to you? Has that uncle of yours died?”

“Wilf, you’ll never believe. I’m a national figure!”

“Don’t be wet.”

“I am, I am! I’ll slap you!”

“What is it this time?”

“Well. You remember my friend who works for Auntie?”

“Which one?”

“The one who runs most of it, Rudesby!”

“Ha.”

“Well. I thought we’d parted for good but he must have passed the word along—”

“Same school.”

“It may have helped. As I was saying, they tried me for this and that, all rather up-market, you know, and then by sheer luck they tried me for a panel game! My dear, I’m a rave! The very moment the GBP was feeling mellow about us willowy old things, there I am, ready and willing—I swear my post is bigger than yours and you’d never believe what I’ve been offered for a sherry commercial! But that’s a tricky one.”

“What’s the programme called?”

It was the first time I had ever seen Johnny look bashful. He even blushed a bit; but he held my eye and giggled.

“I Spy.”

I giggled too and for some time we could do nothing else. The barmaid looked at us speculatively as if wondering how dirty the story had been. At last I pushed him away, wiping my eyes.

“No wonder you look like the dog’s dinner. You, Johnny! You used to think saying ‘of’ instead of ‘have’ was the sin against the holy ghost!”

“As Wilfred Barclay used to say, the money’s good, unquote.”

“How was Burning Sappho?”

“A disaster.”

“No!”

Johnny came close.

“You won’t spread this around?”

“Of course not.”

“The bitch was remaindered practically before publication. Oh, indecent haste to post with such dexterity—”

“Such bad luck.”

“Talking of dogs—”

“Were we?”

“‘Dog’s dinner!’”

“Ah yes.”

“Did you ever find it?”

“Take me with you, Johnny.”

“Well, now, what were we talking about the last time we met in that positively palaeolithic hotel?”

“You tell me.”

“I said you ought to try liking someone and to start with a dog.”

“Ah.”

“Well—did you actually find one? You see, you’ve altered. I’m curious. Come on, Wilf!”

“Ah.”

“Don’t make mysteries and hide behind your beard!”

“Yap yap.”

“Wilfred Barclay going walkies with a poodle!”

“Yes. I found one.”

Johnny’s face came down towards mine, eager, curious. News, news, news!

“And—?”

“I killed it.”

Johnny took some of his drink and thought about me. He looked out of the window at the little garden which was sunny with daffodils and some blue flower—violets, sweet violets perhaps. He looked back at me solemnly.

“That’s bad. That’s very, very, very bad.”

Somewhere, someone beat a dinner gong.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll go up to my bowl. Yap yap.”

Johnny said nothing.

I went up, making automatically for what used to be considered my seat. It was still empty, the one at the table under Psyche, where I’d sat with my agent at one time, my publisher at another and once with Capstone Bowers. Psyche was still there, natch. She’s our only valuable objet, early Victorian white marble on a malachite pillar and really rather good. She ought to be looking down at Cupid, of course, and holding her lamp to see his face but in the circumstances she always seems to me to be peering at the menu or the wine list and trying to make up her mind what will go with which. I thought it would be a good place for my interview with Rick. This time, Psyche seemed to whisper in my ear that a carafe of house claret wouldn’t do me any harm and I had a struggle to resist her. However, virtue triumphed.