He said desperately to Mr Crabbin, ‘I’m sorry, but –’

‘Don’t think any more about it,’ Mr Crabbin said. ‘One cup of coffee and then let’s go on to the discussion. We have a very good gathering tonight. They’ll put you on your mettle, Mr Dexter.’ One of the young men placed a cup in his hand, the other shovelled in sugar before he could say he preferred his coffee unsweetened. The younger man breathed into his ear, ‘Afterwards would you mind signing one of your books, Mr Dexter?’ A large woman in black silk bore down upon him and said, ‘I don’t mind if the Gräfin does hear me, Mr Dexter, but I don’t like your books, I don’t approve of them. I think a novel should tell a good story.’

‘So do I,’ Martins said hopelessly.

‘Now, Mrs Bannock, wait for question time.’

‘I know I’m downright, but I’m sure Mr Dexter values honest criticism.’

An old lady, who he supposed was the Gräfin, said, ‘I do not read many English books, Mr Dexter, but I am told that yours …’

‘Do you mind drinking up?’ Crabbin said and hustled him through into an inner room where a number of elderly people were sitting on a semi-circle of chairs with an air of sad patience.

Martins was not able to tell me very much about the meeting; his mind was still dazed with the death; when he looked up he expected to see at any moment the child Hansel and hear that persistent pedantic refrain, ‘Papa, Papa.’ Apparently Crabbin opened the proceedings, and, knowing Crabbin, I am sure that it was a very lucid, very fair and unbiased picture of the contemporary English novel. I have heard him give that talk so often, varied only by the emphasis given to the work of the particular English visitor. He would have touched lightly on various problems of technique – the point of view, the passage of time – and then he would have declared the meeting open for questions and discussion.

Martins missed the first question altogether, but luckily Crabbin filled the gap and answered it satisfactorily. A woman wearing a brown hat and a piece of fur round her throat said with passionate interest, ‘May I ask Mr Dexter if he is engaged on a new work?’

‘Oh, yes – yes.’

‘May I ask the title?’

‘“The Third Man”,’ Martins said and gained a spurious confidence as the result of taking that hurdle.

‘Mr Dexter, could you tell us what author has chiefly influenced you?’

Martins, without thinking, said, ‘Grey.’ He meant of course the author of Riders of the Purple Sage, and he was pleased to find his reply gave general satisfaction – to all save an elderly Austrian who asked, ‘Grey. What Grey? I do not know the name.’