‘Certainly I do. Was Carolo like that – jealous in that way?’

‘A bit. But Carolo’s chief interest is in making conquests, he doesn’t much mind who it is. I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t run after Audrey Maclintick. Probably Maclintick would be glad of someone to keep her quiet and take her off his hands. What a bitch she is.’

‘All the same, there is a difference between being fed up with your wife and wanting another man to take her off your hands.’

‘There wasn’t in Carolo’s case. He was thankful when I fixed myself up. That is part of his simple nature, which is his chief charm. I had really left Donners by the time I met Hugh. What do you think about Hugh?’

‘I should guess that he was not particularly jealous as men go.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that. He isn’t. I mean what do you think of him as a man?’

‘You know quite well, Matilda, that he is a great friend of mine.’

‘But his work… I do think he is… frightfully intelligent… a great man… whatever you like. Everything one says of that sort always sounds silly about someone you know – certainly someone you are married to. I had quite enough of being told my husband was a genius when I was Carolo’s wife. But you do agree about Hugh, don’t you, Nick?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’

‘That is why I am so worried about the symphony. You see, I am sure it will not be properly appreciated. People are so stupid.’

I longed to hear more about Sir Magnus Donners; whether some of the very circumstantial, very highly coloured stories that circulated about the elaboration of his idiosyncrasies, were at all near the truth. However, the moment to acquire such information, the moment for such frivolities, if it had ever existed, was now past. The tone had become too serious I could not imagine what the next revelation would be; certainly nothing so light-hearted as a first-hand account of a millionaire’s sexual fantasies.

‘Then there is this business of both of us having a career.’

‘That is always difficult.’

‘I don’t want never to act again.’

‘Of course not.’

‘After all, if Hugh wanted to marry a squaw, he could easily have found a squaw. They abound in musical circles. It is the answer for lots of artists.’

‘Hugh has always been against squaws. Rightly, I think. In the long run, in my opinion, a squaw is even more nuisance than her antithesis – and often cooks worse too.’

‘Then why do Hugh and I find it so difficult to get on together?’

‘But you always seem to get on a treat.’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘Well, don’t you – when you look at the Maclinticks, for example?’

‘And then…’

I thought for a moment she was going to speak of the child’s death, which I now saw had dislocated their marriage more seriously than anyone had supposed from the outside. Instead, she returned to her earlier theme.

‘And now he has gone and fallen in love with your sister-in-law, Priscilla.’

‘But-’

Matilda laughed at the way in which I failed to find any answer. There was really nothing for me to say. If it was true, it was true. From one point of view, I felt it unjust that I should be visited in this manner with Matilda’s mortification; from another, well deserved, in that I had not already acquainted myself with what was going on round me.

‘Of course it is all quite innocent,’ said Matilda. ‘That is the worst thing about it from my point of view. It would be much easier if he had fallen for some old tart like myself he could sleep with for a spell, then leave when he was bored.’

‘When did all this start up?’

In asking the question, I committed myself in some degree to acceptance of her premises about Moreland and Priscilla. There seemed no alternative.

‘Oh, I don’t know. A month or two ago. They met at that office where she works. I knew something of the sort had happened when he came home that day.’

‘But they met first at our flat.’

‘They’d met before you produced her at your flat. They kept quiet about knowing each other when they met there.’

I spared a passing thought for the slyness of Priscilla; also for Matilda’s all-embracing information service. Before more could be said about this uncomfortable subject, two things happened to break up our conversation. First of all the distinguished conductor – rather specially noted for his appreciation of feminine attractions – presented himself with a great deal of flourish to pay his respects to Matilda. He was known to admire her, but until that moment had been unable to escape from persons who wanted to take this opportunity of chatting with a celebrity of his calibre, finally being pinned down by Lady Huntercombe, who had descended upon him after failing to capture Robert. He had already made some opening remarks of a complimentary kind to Matilda, consciously recalling by their form of expression the elaborate courtesies of an earlier age – and I was preparing to leave Matilda to him – when my attention was diverted to something that had taken place at the far end of the room.

This was nothing less than the arrival of Stringham. At first I could hardly believe my eyes. There he was standing by the door talking to Buster. The scene was only made credible by the fact that Buster looked extremely put out. After what had been said that evening, Stringham was certainly the last person to be expected to turn up at his mother’s party. He was not wearing evening clothes, being dressed, in fact, in a very old tweed suit and woollen jumper. As usual he looked rather distinguished in these ancient garments, which could not have less fitted the occasion, but somehow at the same time seemed purposely designed to make Buster appear overdressed. Stringham himself was, as formerly, perfectly at ease, laughing a lot at something he had just remarked to Buster, who, with wrinkled forehead and raised eyebrows, had for once lost all his air of lazy indifference to life, and seemed positively to be miming the part of a man who has suddenly received a disagreeable surprise. Stringham finished what he had to say, clapped Buster on the back, and turned towards his mother who came up at that moment. I was too far away to hear Mrs Foxe’s words, but, as she kissed her son affectionately, she was clearly welcoming him in the manner appropriate to one returned unexpectedly from a voyage round the world. At the same time, unlike her husband, she showed no surprise or discomposure at Stringham’s arrival. They spoke together for a second or two, then she returned to her conversation with Lord Huntercombe. Stringham turned away from her and strolled across the room, gazing about him with a smile. Catching sight of me suddenly, he drew back with a movement of feigned horror, then made towards the place where I was standing. I went to meet him.

‘My dear Nick.’

‘Charles.*

‘I had no idea you had musical tastes, Nick. Why did you keep them from me all these years? Because I never asked, I suppose. One always finds the answer to everything in one’s own egotism. But how nice to meet again. I am a recluse now. I see nobody. I expect you already knew that. Everybody seems to know by now. It is just a bit like being a leper, only I don’t actually have to carry a bell. They decided to let me off that. Thought I should make too much of a row, I suppose. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to come unexpectedly upon an old friend one knew several million years ago.’

There could be no doubt that he was drunk, but, within the vast area comprised by that term, among the immensely varied states of mind and body which intoxication confers, Stringham’s at this moment was that controlled exhilaration of spirit more akin to madness than carousal, which some addicts can achieve after a single glass. He looked rather ghastly when you were close to him, his skin pale and mottled, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. Even so, there was plenty of the old dash about his manner.