Marcus walked slowly to the edge of the pool. Leni, Leni, Leni. Well: you shouldn’t have gone off with him. All day. I suppose it was my fault really. I ‘pretended’ him for you, in his white knickers and things. Fat hopes for you! Bet you didn’t have as much fun as I did. I wish I hadn’t. No I don’t. Screw it all, I’ve fucked a Film Star. He braced himself, took a deep breath. ‘Well! here I go,’ he called, and dived into the water just as Cuckoo arrived at the top of the stairs under the Albertine arch.

‘Mamma Mia,’ murmured Sylva, slipping quietly into the water, ‘it could have been poor Sylva… that’s sure.’

‘Welcome,’ said Minerva, raising one long arm from the depths of the settee in which she lay. ‘Welcome, my dear, to the Senior Citizens Ward.’ She indicated, with a vague wave of her hand, the prostrate figure of Lilli Scarlatti on the floor across the room.

Cuckoo dropped her hat into a chair, sat down. ‘That remark, if you will forgive me, has the blatant sound of defiance ringing in it.’

‘Not any longer,’ said Minerva. ‘We’re bushed.’

‘So it would seem. Well… I’ve had my nap, checked the picnic ruins, been down to the pool, found Marcus and the Film Star… can’t find Leni and the German, and have had two super, duper, glasses of hot Krug. How about that?’

‘Great. We’ve done the gardens, the pool and the house. We have seen, and we can see now, the Magrittes, Bpnnard, Sickerts and the John, which she, ito her ignorance…’ indicating Scarlatti who had not moved or opened her eyes’… findsbanal.’ She turned her head towards the black figure on the floor.

‘It was “banal”, you said? Lilli?’

Scarlatti raised one hand, which hung like a drooping claw, crippled with jade. ‘Si, si. Banal. Excuse me.’

‘Quite possibly right. I never thought,’ said Cuckoo.

‘And we have also done the study. The Museum! Can you believe? Lili actually crossed the forbidden threshold and Charles welcomed her, if not with open arms at least without a loaded revolver. They had a very interesting time, right Lilli?’

‘Si, si… most interesting.’

‘We went through hems and lapels, button holes, badges, decorations, tissues, leather, hessian, feathers and God knows what. I think that I know, just exactly what every single man in the French army was wearing on the morning of Waterloo: down to his underpants.’

‘He is living history, Sir Charles,’ murmured Scarlatti carefully sitting up.

‘I’ve often thought so too,’ said Cuckoo dryly. ‘He was in his room; resting… he said he would be?’