“As a matter of fact, Ottoline and I were just talking about babies. I was telling her mine will be entirely made of paper. Paper and words, of course.”

I realize from the slur in your speech how drunk you are.

“Ottoline has experience with both kinds of progeny. We’ve been setting out the merits and faults in each case. The labor is roughly the same—though there is perhaps more blood in the case of written offspring—but this is amply compensated for by other advantages. After all, books do not grow up and turn their backs on their aging creators.”

There is a flare of triumph in your eyes. I look round for Clive. You seem to read my mind.

“Now where’s that delicious husband of yours? I sent him to fetch ices. Cleopatra must have her Antony. Ah, there he is, returning from his arduous campaign. He appears to be victorious.”

You beckon to Clive, who is holding a tray of ices above his head as he battles his way through the throng of guests. I wave to him but he does not see me. I watch his eyes fasten on you.

“Here we are.” Clive hands you an ice, then offers one to Ottoline. To my surprise, you link your arm through mine. I follow you reluctantly across the courtyard. We stop by the fountain.

“I’m glad you’re here. Ott can be so ridiculous! She worships all artists but can never quite decide to set her coronet aside, so everything she says is tinged with an overbearing condescension. Look at her flirting with Clive! She’s like some terrifying Medusa with her great beaky face.”

I stare at you. I do not know whether I am shocked at the way you tear Ottoline to pieces or relieved that you are once again confiding in me.