The thing now was, obviously, to get hold of her and coach her in her story. He must hurry, because he had to get lunch and be back to invigilate at an examination by two o'clock. Before making any move, however, he threw back his head and gave a long trombone-blast of anarchistic laughter. It was all so wonderful, even if it did go wrong, and it wouldn't. The campaign against Bertrand he'd fantasied about at the Welches' had begun, and with a dazzling tactical success. A warning voice told him that this campaign, even so far, was too dangerous for a man in his precarious position, that the joy of battle was submerging his prudence, but he drowned it in more laughter of the same sort.

Yet again he picked up the phone, got Trunks and then Christine Callaghan's number. Better not tell her anything like the full story of his conversation with Bertrand, he thought. After a moment he leaned forward and said: 'Miss Callaghan? Good. It's Dixon here. Now listen carefully.'

X

'HONESTLY, James, she couldn't have been more livid,' Margaret said.' She kept it well under control, of course, but her mouth went tight and her eyes absolutely flashed fire; you know the way they do. I can't say I blame her, having it thrown at her across the tea-table like that, in front of me and the Neddies.'

'What was actually said?' Dixon asked, executing a turn at the corner of the dance-floor and beginning to lead her up towards the band.

'Well, he just said: "Oh, by the way, Carol, I've been meaning to tell you that Christine's coming to the dance after all, and she's bringing her uncle with her." Then he went all facetious on her: "So as not to have uncle partnering niece, which wouldn't be according to the best usages" or some rubbish like that, "I thought the best thing would be to switch her on to my ticket, if you've no objection" - as if she could object, with all the rest of us there listening - "and Gore-Urquhart would be only too pleased to escort you, I'm sure," and that was that.'

'Mm,' Dixon said. The strain of dancing, always considerable, and of keeping his eyes on Margaret's face as it bobbed and advanced and receded, made elaborate speech difficult for him. In addition, he had to keep straining his ears to catch the beat of the music above the swishing of many pairs of feet and the clamour of many conversations. 'A bit thick, that.'

'I've never seen anything so abominably rude in my life. The man's quite impossible, James, socially and, er, in every other way. I say, though - it struck me at the time - do you think there's anything, well, going on between Bertrand and Carol?'

'I've no idea. What makes you say that?'

'Haven't you ever noticed anything?'

'I don't think so; why?'

'Oh, I don't know. It's really rather odd that he should ever have been taking her to the Ball, and then her looking so furious…'

'Ah, but Bertrand's always been pretty thick with both of them - I remember you were there when she told us - and it's only natural she should feel she was being pushed around a bit. Sorry,' he added to a girl whose bottom had come into collision with his hip. He wished this set of dances would end; he was hot, his socks seemed to have been sprayed with fine adhesive sand, and his arms ached like those of a boxer keeping his guard up after fourteen rounds. He wondered why he didn't tell Margaret about the embrace he'd seen during the arty week-end; she always kept her mouth shut when told to. Perhaps it was that the news, as well as shocking her, would make her mildly exultant, and he didn't want that. Why didn't he want that?

Margaret was talking again, animatedly; her face was a little flushed and her lipstick had been more carefully applied than usual. She looked as if she was enjoying herself; her sort of minimal prettiness was in evidence. 'Well, anyway, I think she's done a good deal better for herself with Mr Gore-Urquhart. I must say he seems most charming, something quite exceptional these days. He's got the most beautiful manners, hasn't he? quite the real thing. Bit of a change after the bearded monster.'

Dixon gargled inaudibly in his throat at this mixture of styles, but before he had time to reply the dance wheeled to an end. In a moment an uneasy thundering, followed by a clashing thump, signalled the end of the set. Dixon heaved a sigh and wiped his palms on his handkerchief. 'What about a drink?' he said.

Margaret was darting her eyes this way and that. 'Wait a minute; I just want to see if I can see the others.'

The dancers were trickling away on to the touchlines of the long dance-floor. The walls were decorated with scenes from the remoter past, portrayed in what was no doubt an advanced style, so that in the one nearest Dixon, for example, some lack of perspective or similar commodity made a phalanx of dwarf infantrymen (Spartan? Macedonian? Roman?) seem to be falling from the skies upon their much larger barbarian adversaries (Persian? Iranian? Carthaginian?) who, unaware of this danger overhead, gazed threateningly into the empty middle distance. At intervals stood large pillars of some pallid material. Dixon gave a sad, nostalgic smile; it all reminded him so clearly of those large eating-establishments at Marble Arch, Charing Cross, Coventry Street, where he'd enjoyed himself so much. Lowering his eyes from these memorials, he caught sight of Michie in the crowd, talking and laughing vigorously with Miss O'Shaughnessy, the prettiest of the three pretty girls and, in fact, Michie's girl. She had the kind of water-gipsy face, dusky but rosy, that affected him uncomfortably. The same was true of the low-cut dress she wore. Though he was fifteen yards away from him, Dixon knew all about the perfection of Michie's evening clothes, the efficiency of his chatter, and the attentiveness of his audience. Michie now caught his eye, at once became grave, and made him a shallow but courteous bow. Miss O'Shaughnessy managed a quick smile before turning away, beyond all question so as to laugh. 'What about a drink?' Dixon asked Margaret again.

'Ah, here they are,' she said by way of reply.

Bertrand and Christine were approaching. Bertrand, Dixon had to admit, was quite presentable in evening clothes, and to say of him now that he looked like an artist of some sort would have been true without being too offensive. It was on him that Dixon fixed his eye, less from interest than to avoid fixing it on Christine. Her manner to him so far that evening had been not even cold; it had been simply non-existent, had made him feel that, contrary to the evidence of his senses, he wasn't really there at all. But, worse than this, she was looking her best this evening. She wore a yellow dress that left her shoulders bare. It was perfectly plain, managing, as if it had been intended just for that, to reveal as decidedly ill-judged Margaret's royal-blue taffeta, with its bow and what he supposed were gatherings or something, and with the quadruple row of pearls above it. Christine's aim, he imagined, had been to show off the emphasis of her natural colouring and skin-texture. The result was painfully successful, making everybody else look like an assemblage of granulated halftones. For a moment, as she and Bertrand came up, Dixon caught her eye, and although it held nothing for him he wanted to cast himself down behind the protective wall of skirts and trousers, or, better, pull the collar of his dinner-jacket over his head and run out into the street. He'd read somewhere, or been told, that somebody like Aristotle or I. A. Richards had said that the sight of beauty makes us want to move towards it. Aristotle or L A. Richards had been wrong about that, hadn't he?

'Well, what goes forward, people?' Bertrand asked. He was holding Christine's wrist between finger and thumb, perhaps taking her pulse. He glanced at Dixon, to whom he'd so far been fairly amiable.