Desmond ran a finger worriedly round the collar of his shirt. ‘Well: as a matter of fact, may sound a bit loopy to you, but yes. That’s the surprise I mentioned in my card, remember? I sort of, whatdoyercallit … pressed my suit and she accepted. Fact is, I’ve banged on for a hell of a long time on my own. It’s a pretty lonely life; I’d quite like to hang up my hat so to speak. She’s willing. Got a bit of a shock when I first sugggested it but she’s come round now. It’s all on: Registrar’s Office: nothing silly at our ages. Wanted you to know first though. You don’t think I’m daft, do you? Lost a slate?’

‘I think it’s super. Terrific. Great, Des, really.’

Desmond smiled nervously. Picked up his empty glass.

‘Good. That’s a relief. As a matter of fact I think it’s pretty terrific myself. Same again?’

On the terrace Bea refilled her glass with Perrier, chose a pistachio nut.

‘Does it all come out of a bottle?’ said Leni suddenly.

Bea turned towards her very slowly. ‘What come out of a bottle?’

‘Your face.’

‘All. Layer by layer.’

‘It’s hard to do?’

‘Deathly.’

‘It’s so beautiful.’

‘Thank you. I’m as blind as a bat. Ever tried to stick on your eyelashes wearing bifocals? Amazing caper.’

‘No. But could you show me how. To do your face?’

‘I actually “do” houses, dear; not people.’

‘It’s so fantastic … could you?’

‘So are the bones in your face. Fantastic.’

‘So what could I do to look as you?’

‘Patience. And follow the instructions on the labels.’

‘I can never go shopping. Marcus hates to.’

‘And Desmond. The one maddening fault.’

‘Perhaps we could go together? There are two days, isn’t it?’

Mongins, tomorrow. We could the day after, Thursday. I know that Des wants to start back at dawn, dawn my dear, on Friday. Catch the Saturday boat at Calais.’

Leni clapped her hands with pleasure. ‘Could we? And my hair …’ She pulled it distractedly. ‘So dry, all sand and sea and salt.’

‘And too long.’

‘Too long? It’s short!’

‘Not short enough: crop it, like a choir boy’s, with a side parting. It’s total disaster as it is. You look like Grock.’

‘Oh.’

‘And that piece of butter muslin to which you seem so deeply attached.’

Leni stroked a little puff sleeve, anxiously. ‘My blouse. It is Hungarian. Hand-made.’

‘Precisely what it looks like.’

‘And you don’t like?’

‘Deadly. We can do better than that, and with your bones, and those eyes. I mean, no one is actually forcing you to dress at Oxfam, are they?’