Finally, he returned to the flat one night, wept into his whisky, begged for her forgiveness, made love to her until, spent and drowsy, she fell asleep, then took from her jewel case a diamond bracelet worth fifteen thousand dollars, and left for Antibes – with Lady Julia.

She might have survived even this grotesque betrayal, if it had not been for a single sentence, overheard at a party in London. The comment made her long humiliation spill over at last.

“Poor Belle,” this was what she heard, when she paused at the entrance to the room, “Poor Belle – she must be going through hell with Charles.”

“Don’t be silly, darling!” said the second voice. “She’s American – it’s not like ordinary people.”

That had been ten years ago, just before the war. This time, she had paid, and herself moved on, alone. She had not seen or heard of him again, until tonight.

Now she moved restlessly, frowning at her thoughts, and said: “What are you doing in America?”

He gestured with an easy hand. “Looking round. The old country’s absolutely played out, Belle. You wouldn’t recognize it. Nothing but the Welfare State – whatever that is – and blasted socialists barging in everywhere. Hopeless. I thought I’d try my luck over here.”

She said, again: “You’ll get nothing out of me. Let’s have that straight, for a start.”

“I was at your meeting tonight.” Once more it sounded as though the words explained everything to him, and should do the same for her. After a moment he added, in a different voice: “You’re on to a pretty good thing there, old girl.”

She looked up, to find him staring at her admiringly. She felt weakened by his presence. By God, she thought, for two cents he’d climb into bed with me, even now … It was funny to see him across the fireplace again, after all these years. He could still make her feel like a woman – damn him … She straightened up.

“It’s not a ‘good thing’ at all,” she answered tartly. “I’ve been training this girl, and looking after her, for years, and now we collect money for the blind. It’s not one of your damned rackets, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Of course not, Belle. I know you wouldn’t dream of it.” But there was little conviction in his voice: it sounded as though he wanted to wink at her … He rose, and crossed to the side table, to pour another drink. From there, with his back towards her, he asked suddenly: “Where’s all the money, Belle?”

“What money?”

“The money you’ve collected during the past year or so.”

She was feeling weak again. “It’s in a fund.”

“A trust fund?”

“No.”

“Who administers it?”

“I do.”

He still kept his back turned towards her. It made his questioning seem detached and judicial, far more unnerving than if he had faced her directly.

“Is it in her name?”

“No. She’s blind and deaf and dumb. How could she operate a bank account?”