‘To Winnie!’ echoed the party-goers.

‘They’re certainly NOT IDENTICAL, ARE THEY?’ observed the elderly voice.

Avril climbed down, to applause, and then reappeared almost immediately, holding a copy of the book – ‘I have been induced to read a short section’ – and Winnie downed the remains of her wine and started to edge through the crowd towards the door, unable to face hearing about Binnie and her bed-bouncing exploits. From those who caught her eye on the way out, there were smiles of gratitude and encouragement, such as one might give to a person endowed with gumption and bravery, or, indeed, to a perspiring ungulate who was behaving well in public. She could see herself brooding for several days on the nuances of Avril’s speech.

In the hall outside, she waited for the maid to bring her coat. Once again, applause sounded from the drawing room, followed by the resumption of chatter.

‘Oh, Winnie, you’re here! I was worried I’d missed you.’

‘Clive.’ Avril’s husband kissed her cheek and she felt the unexpected scrape of stubble.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, clapping a hand to his chin. ‘I only flew back from … another place this afternoon; I had to shave on the aeroplane, not ideal.’

He was wearing a grey suit and there was a greyish tinge to his pleasantly baggy features, so that he resembled a photograph in a newspaper.

‘You look tired,’ she said.

‘Don’t we all? But I couldn’t miss this, could I? Wasn’t Avril simply marvellous?’

‘Yes.’

‘Absolutely luminous.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know which line she always reminds me of?’

‘No.’

‘The Byron sonnet. “And all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes.” You know it, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Winnie, wondering how long this would go on for; once Clive got on to his favourite topic, he was difficult to shift.

‘How’s the war coming along?’ she asked, only half facetiously; he was, as Avril liked to say, un grand fromage at the Foreign Office.

‘I suppose one could say it’s progressing towards the correct conclusion,’ said Clive. ‘Though not altogether smoothly.’

‘Were you in France today? No, sorry, I know you can’t say. But how was it, wherever you were?’

‘Rather windy, as a matter of fact. Have you heard from Emlyn recently?’

‘No, actually. Not for a few weeks. I keep thinking that since everything’s in uproar, the letters aren’t getting through, or else that he’s been liberated and he’ll suddenly turn up on the …’ There was an indefinable shift in Clive’s expression. ‘What?’ asked Winnie, just as the maid arrived with her coat. Clive waited until the woman had left, and then gestured towards a door further down the hall. Inside was a small sitting room. He drew the curtains and switched on a lamp.

‘What?’ asked Winnie again, alarmed now. ‘What is it?’

‘Emlyn’s in Stalag Ten, isn’t he?’

‘Ten A. Why? Have you heard something? Tell me.’

‘The thing is, Winnie, we’ve had a report from a Red Cross delegate that POWs in camps close to the Russian advance – and that may include Emlyn’s – are being moved. The delegate had actually seen groups of Allied prisoners being marched west by their guards.’