She had observed all these things, for many months past; and she had done nothing, because she had hoped that the ugly affair would resolve itself. Now she was not sure that there could be any solution, save in flight or in the last dishonour – for him to slake his body at the blind fountain he desired.

Peace lay over the Bristol suite. They were due to sail in a few days’ time on the Australian leg of the tour; most of their luggage, already packed, had gone down to the steamship offices, and their rooms now seemed bare and impermanent, waiting for them to leave. It was a suspended moment, a moment of silence and uncertainty.

Mrs Bannister, packing the last of Esther’s clothes, went down the short corridor and into the girl’s bathroom, to sort out the toilet things she would need on the voyage. The room was clean and bright, the sunlight falling on the polished tiles and reflecting long, mote-filled shafts from there on to the ceiling; it was an enclosed hygienic box, lined with mirrors, steam-warmed and perfumed, a room for nakedness, relaxation, private security.

With her hand poised to open the medicine chest above the washbasin, Mrs Bannister heard a slight movement behind her. She turned, startled, but found nothing – nothing save the wind rustling the waterproofed curtains that hung round the shower.

They were still trembling slightly, slurring against the tiled wall, as she turned back again. Then, on the instant, it was she who was trembling, as she noticed something else about the bathroom.

It had a single window, and that window was closed. There could therefore be no draught, to make the shower curtains move.

When, turning once more, she called out: “Charles …” she could hardly articulate, so tightly strangled was her dry throat.

The curtains moved again. Charles Bannister’s face appeared between them, inquiringly. He was not taken aback: he was even smiling.

“Hope I didn’t startle you,” he said. “I was just looking at this tap. It’s leaking.”

For a split second she thought of accepting the absurd explanation, and passing the whole thing off. Then the tide of her fear and horror returned to engulf her, and she swallowed and said: “You were waiting here to watch Esther.”

“Don’t be absurd, Belle.” There was still no embarrassment in his voice: she could not remember a better performance, in all their long years together. “What on earth would I do that for?”

“You wanted to watch her.” Mrs Bannister’s voice was choking with disgust. “It’s her own bathroom. She always uses it. But, I came in instead.”

“The tap,” he said briefly. “Only you call it a faucet. It leaks. I’m fixing it.”

“You were hiding behind that curtain, waiting for Esther.”

“The faucet. It leaks.”

His face between the shower curtains was gravely controlled: only his words were false and lying, not meeting her own at all. It was as if they were drawing farther and farther apart: it reminded her of a nightmare, when one person strives to behave normally, while another conducts some insane antic. The two of them could never meet, never eliminate the hideous ground that lay between.