Once again, I contrive to keep busy. Quentin writes a play for my birthday. We take our places in the sitting room, where the chairs have been arranged in a semicircle. Angelica stands in front of the fireplace, wearing a conical hat marked with the word “guide.” She is carrying a number of sheets of paper and proceeds to label us, as if we are items of furniture. Clive, Bunny, and Maynard are tagged, then you, Leonard, Duncan, and me. Without my glasses I find it hard to make out what the labels say. Quentin appears and reads a story from a newspaper concerning a delegation of visitors from the moon. It seems we are in the year 2036. Angelica welcomes Quentin to Charleston and takes him on a tour of the room. She points out that the decorations were achieved using an ancient technique of pot and brush. Quentin yawns, visibly bored by her explanations. It is only when Angelica begins to talk about the occupants of the house that Quentin registers an interest. His appetite whetted, he probes his guide for information about their personalities and habits. His eyes grow round as she tells him about my proclivity for receiving guests in clothes spattered with paint or mud from the garden. No one is spared. Your dislike of being photographed is held up for ridicule, as are Leonard’s summary refusals to join in a game. Spurred on by her interrogator, Angelica reveals more and more of our foibles. She exposes Clive’s leisurely morning toilette, Duncan’s inability to commit to an engagement, Maynard’s miserliness with money. As the play draws to a close we clap and cheer and demand an encore. No one has mentioned the fighting in Spain for almost an hour.

We stroll into the garden, where a table has been laid with food. I find you sitting on a rug under one of the apple trees. I plant myself next to you.

“Angelica has talent,” you begin. “She could go far.”

“She adores acting. She always has.”

“She’s very good at it.” You turn so that you are looking at me directly. “I wasn’t the only one to notice how entrancing she was in that white shift.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bunny couldn’t take his eyes off her!”

“Bunny? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“For a painter I sometimes wonder at the things you don’t see.”

“Bunny has known Angelica ever since she was born. He could be her father. Besides, he was only invited because we were all so moved by his letter.” I pull a daisy from the grass. “It seems Barbara hasn’t much longer to live.”

“Precisely.” You stare at me coolly. “Did you miss the way he smiled at her when she pinned on his label?”

I cannot hide my indignation.