The gramophone sends its tune strutting and cavalcading about the room. Several couples are already dancing. I am struck by the lavishness of your new London residence. The chairs have been re-covered in a bold yellow check, there are green glass ornaments on the mantelshelf, new lamps. You are talking to a woman I do not recognize. I study the crop of dark, shingled hair swept back off the forehead, the deep-set eyes, the lascivious mouth. I remember your last letter, in which you mentioned meeting a daughter of the Sackville family, the novelist Vita Sackville-West. Splendid, was how you described her: aristocratic, arrogant, and dressed like a parakeet. You could not abide her society small talk and did not think you would see her again. The music jigs and frisks. I watch you catch hold of Vita, and playfully, commandingly, lead her to the middle of the floor. All eyes are upon you. Vita is dressed in flamboyant orange silk trousers, two black feathers in her hair. You dip and hop and slide to one of the new dance steps. As you spin Vita round, you fling your arms above your head, wild and free. The tune slows and you let your cheek rest on Vita’s breast, your hips gyrating as you two-step back and forth. Everyone claps as the dance ends. You survey your audience and take a deep bow, your face flushed and ecstatic. You lead Vita to the side of the room where refreshments have been set out on a table. You whisper something in her ear as you hand her a drink, and the two of you roar with laughter. I look round for Duncan. He is standing by the window, talking to Tom. I wonder when it will be decent for me to leave.

You come toward me. You find an empty chair and set it beside mine, your eyes still shining from the triumph of your dance. The gramophone sends out a new tune. Lydia pulls a reluctant Maynard to his feet.

“So,” you begin, “what do you think of her?”

I gaze at Vita. She is smoking a cigarette and takes a deep draft as she scans the assembled company. I feel her eyes rest on me.

“She considers me as I imagine an Arab horse might consider a long-eared donkey.”

You laugh, pleased with the wit of my reply.

“She certainly has a pedigree. Did I tell you her ancestors go back to the Norman Conquest?”

I say nothing. A young man has approached Vita and I watch them fall into conversation.

“I’m thinking of copying her and getting my hair shingled.”

I start with surprise. You wink at me.

“Why not? It’s time we moved on. Besides, imagine not having to rely on hairpins!”

I push a stray wisp of my own hair back into place and stare at you. Your dark satin and lace come into focus.

“Is that why you’re wearing Mother’s dress?”