“My dear, the pleasure has been all mine. And I hope I shall be able to renew the pleasure very shortly. Goodbye, Miss Cassington.”

“You must call me Pammy. Everyone else does.”

“Pammy then. I’m not sure what you should call me. Uncle William, perhaps.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Or plain, homely William, even? Until we meet again.”

He swept his overcoat off its hook, seized his letter from the table, set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and left the room. They listened to his footsteps going downstairs. The front door slammed.

“I am so, so sorry,” Lydia said.

Pamela patted her hand. “You don’t need to be. He’s a pet.”

“No, he’s not. He’s an awful man. He sponges off everyone, he’s an old soak, and he’s my father.”

“All I can say is that he was very nice to me.”

“He can put on an act for five minutes but that’s all it is. An act. He’s probably hoping you’ll persuade Mother to ask him to the wedding so he can get sozzled on Fin’s champagne.” Lydia was suddenly aware that tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh damn and blast it.”

Pamela, nothing if not practical, opened her handbag and produced a freshly ironed handkerchief smelling of musk and flowers, Jean Patou’s Sublime. Lydia dabbed her eyes. Pamela kept hold of Lydia with one hand and opened the platinum cigarette case with the other.

“There, that’s better. Try one of these. I’m not sure I like them very much but they’re meant to be frightfully good. Rex has a little man who makes them up for him.”

Automatically Lydia took a cigarette. “To be fair, he’s given me a home.” She remembered yesterday evening, when she had settled him down for the night. “And he can be very sweet sometimes.”

Pamela clicked her lighter and Lydia bent her head over the flame.

“You know Marcus is at the meeting too?”

Lydia inhaled and sat back nodding. “I saw him this morning.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. Thank God.”

“You’re very bitter,” Pamela said gently.

“There’s a good reason for that. In fact there are several.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

Lydia shook her head. “Another time perhaps. Are you really sure about Rex?”

“I know you don’t like him, but yes, I am. We understand each other, you see. I know what he wants and he knows what I want.”

“If it doesn’t work out, you can always come and share my room here.”

Pamela giggled. “That would be lovely. We could become chorus girls or something. And we’d have rich protectors, awfully vulgar but with hearts of gold, and they’d simply dote on us.” Without warning, which was characteristic of her, she changed the subject. “So you’ll have seen Marcus in his uniform? He looks frightfully dashing. I say, he’s convinced you’ve got a boyfriend. Is it true? Do tell-I won’t breathe a word. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not true.”

“You’re going pink on your cheekbones, darling. That always means you’re lying. You’re a dark horse, I must say. Anyway, I don’t want to know. Or rather I do but there’s no immediate hurry. The thing is, Marcus thinks you have. He got some of his toughs to warn him off. Did you know they call them the Biff Boys because they go around biffing people? It makes them sound like some dreadful music hall act but really it’s not very nice, is it? I heard Marcus telling Rex they were interrupted and he’s going to get them to finish biffing up the boyfriend if there’s another chance. That’s why I thought I’d better pop in. Not that I didn’t want to in any case.”

“So it was Marcus. I thought it probably was.”

“Ah-so there is someone.”

“No, there isn’t. Anyway, what gave him the idea?”

“Apparently your father told him that somebody had been hanging round you in a rather objectionable way.”

“But if anyone fits that description, it’s poor Mr. Fimberry. Not-not the one who was attacked.”

“So you’ve got two? How super.”

“I haven’t even got one. Mr. Fimberry’s a bit tiresome but there’s no harm in him. He certainly doesn’t deserve to be beaten up. His nerves are all to pieces.”

“That won’t help him if Marcus gets hold of him. So you’re saying Marcus has got the wrong one?”

“I keep telling you, there isn’t one to get,” Lydia snapped. “And yes, he has got the wrong one. If I did have one, I mean. Oh damn. Typical bloody Marcus.”

“All I can say, darling, you’d better tip the wink to your young man who isn’t your young man. If he’s planning to be at the meeting, he should watch out. The Biff Boys are jolly good at keeping order, you know. When they’ve roughed him up to their satisfaction, they’ll probably pop a knuckleduster in his waistcoat pocket and claim he’s a communist agitator. But he’s not going to the meeting, is he?”

“Oh yes, he is,” Lydia said. “He’ll probably be sitting in the front row taking notes.”

“They look like Girl Guides,” Fenella said. “Only bigger and blacker.”

She and Julian were standing in the cloister by the doorway into the undercroft. Rory was a couple of yards behind them. They had a view of the line of trestle tables running parallel to the west wall of the undercroft. The tables had been covered with white cloths. They were laden with crockery, urns, teapots and food-sandwiches, a great vat of soup and plates of biscuits. Between the tables and the wall were half a dozen women Blackshirts repelling those members of the audience who wanted to start their lunch without delay.

“You can tell they were all very good at knots and helping Mother,” Fenella said.

“I wish you’d go home,” Julian said. “I’m sure Wentwood agrees. This is really no place for a woman.”

“Stop fussing, Julian, and don’t be so old-fashioned. Look at all those Blackshirt girls. They’ve come along-why shouldn’t I? You’re not really saying that women shouldn’t get mixed up in politics, I hope?”

“Of course I’m not.”

“I think Dawlish is right, actually,” Rory murmured. “About your being here, I mean.”

Fenella glared impartially at them. “I’m not leaving. That’s flat. I think you’re both being most unreasonable. Besides, you shouldn’t be seen talking to us, Rory. Go away.”

Dawlish opened his mouth but said nothing. For the first time in their acquaintance, Rory felt a stab of sympathy for the man. Where Fenella was concerned, the poor devil really had it bad.

“Can we meet afterward?” Rory said. “There are some things I need to tell you-not just about the meeting.”

Dawlish nodded. “Shall we say the American Bar again? Five thirty, all being well?”

“Fine,” Rory said, though it wasn’t, because if he got there before Julian, or if Julian failed to turn up, he might have to pay for a drink, which at the Savoy’s prices would probably wipe out most of his budget for December. Besides, Julian had paid for the champagne last night so really Rory couldn’t get out of paying. And then there was the tip: he had no idea how much one left in a place like that.

“Good man,” Dawlish said. “Good luck.”

“Wait a minute,” Fenella said. “Why don’t we meet at the flat instead? It’s nearer and more private.”

Dawlish shrugged. “All right. Are you happy with that?”

Rory nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and humiliated; he suspected that Fenella had guessed what he was thinking.

“If we’re not there, the spare key’s in the coal hole opposite the area door,” Dawlish went on. “There’s a tin of whitewash on the floor. It’s underneath that.”

They separated, Julian and Fenella waiting in the cloister, and Rory going down into the undercroft. A couple of uniformed Fascists were manning the door and stood aside to let him pass, their faces impassive. A very pretty girl, also in Fascist uniform, smiled at him as he passed the tables and said, “Lunch in the interval, sir. Sir Rex is going to open the proceedings first.”