‘You must come too,’ said Lili to me. ‘Go and put on something warm.’

An hour later we all set off down the lawn carrying glasses and a couple of bottles.

‘Where’s Lili?’ asked Robert as we reached the summerhouse. Lili was already there, and so was Syl.

She still wore her hat and her redingote although it was utterly unbuttoned and she had clearly ceased to care whether it was creased or not, but Syl was naked except for his socks and shirt. I thought, with the first touch of pity I had ever felt for him, that he must be rather cold.

This is my last memory of Lili and another one I shall keep until the day I die. We had all witnessed the scene; those who hadn’t crowded to the door peered through the moorish windows to see the winter-flowering cactus and I noticed that it was made of crêpe paper. She was always clever with her hands. The gallery owner shouted, in an outraged roar, ‘Lili.’ And I thought—Lili has slept with every man present with the possible exception of Father O’Flynn. And then I thought that what would have upset my mother most was that Mrs Raffald who was helping with the preparations had also come to see the cactus flower.

I went back to bed, and I never knew how the caterers were dismissed and the wedding guests turned away, the cake and the maidenhair fern disposed of and the parish priest returned to his church.

The day came when I was aware that I had been forgiven, that I was free of hell. I think perhaps that such things happen in eternity and not in time and that we, mortal and profane, can only gradually realize the movements of God: that he is generous and unassuming in these matters, not demanding scenes of reconciliation, merely our souls’ health. I was filled with a sense of flowering, of abundance and gratitude, which related me for a while to infinity. The feeling lessened, of course, for only the saints can bear to live close to God, but sometimes now when I listen to the convent bells ringing with the cry from the minaret, and I look at the lilies under the convent wall where we plant them in memory of Our Lady who sojourned for a while in Egypt, I feel another sense of gratitude. To Lili. For surely to make a great fool and spectacle of yourself for the sake of another is a form of martyrdom.