‘And Hammond? Will you not miss him?’ she asked, attempting to restore a playful tone to their conversation.

‘ Hammond?’ He looked confused. ‘Oh, the manservant. Yes, thank you, he has been splendid.’

‘He’s normally so serious, but all week he has been smiling.’

‘You know,’ Henry said, ‘I will miss your hospitality enormously.’

He determined that he would not speak to Webster that evening, rather he would avoid him at all times. As soon as he reached the stairway on his way to the ball, however, Webster was upon him. He was dressed in a hunting outfit Henry considered absurd and brandishing an envelope with an air of hideous glee.

‘I did not know we had friends in common,’ he said.

Henry bowed.

‘I searched for you this morning,’ Webster said, ‘to tell you that I have a missive here from Mr Wilde, Mr Oscar Wilde, who sends his fond regards to you. At least he says he does, one can never tell with him. He says that he wishes he were here, and of course he would be a great addition to things and he is a great favourite of her ladyship. His lordship, I understand, draws the line before him. I don’t think he would have wanted Mr Wilde in his regiment.’

Webster stopped and moved to go down the stairs with Henry in front of him. Henry remained motionless.

‘Of course, Mr Wilde is very busy with the theatre. He tells me that a play of yours was taken off to make way for his second success of the season and he seems rather pleased with the association. Yours was about a monk, he says. All the Irish are natural writers, my wife says, it comes naturally to them. She adores Mr Wilde.’

Henry remained silent. When Webster stopped as though to let him speak, he bowed again and motioned Webster to go down the stairs, but Webster did not move.

‘Mr Wilde says that he longs to see you in London. He has many friends. Do you know his friends?’

‘No, Mr Webster, I do not think that I have had the good fortune to meet his friends.’

‘Well, perhaps you know them and are not aware that they are his friends. Lady Wolseley came with us to the play about Ernest. You must join us for the next play. I shall inform Lady Wolseley that you must.’

Webster was making a greater effort than usual to be amusing. He also managed somehow to make sure that there was no gap in the conversation so that Henry could take his leave. Clearly, he had more to say.

‘Of course I think artists and politicians have one thing in common. We all pay the price, I think, unless we are lucky and struggle hard. Mr Wilde is having trouble with his wife. It’s a difficult time for him, as I’m sure you understand. Lady Wolseley tells me that you have no wife. That might be one solution. As long as it doesn’t catch on, I suppose.’

He turned and indicated to Henry that they could now walk down the stairs together.

‘But being a bachelor must leave you open to all sorts of… How shall I put it? All sorts of sympathy.’

THE GREAT HALL of the Royal Hospital basked in the glow of a thousand candles. There was music from a small orchestra, and waiters moved among the guests offering champagne. The tables were set, as Lady Wolseley had told him, with silver which Lord Wolseley had recently inherited, shipped from London specially for the occasion. So far only the men were present. He was informed that none of the ladies wanted to be the first to arrive, all of them were in their chambers waiting for news from their maids, who regularly spied down into the hall from the stairwell. Lord Houghton was in his full regalia as the queen’s representative in Ireland and he took the view that Lord Wolseley would have to organize a cavalry charge to force the ladies to appear. Lady Wolseley, it seemed, was the most recalcitrant of all and had sworn that she would be the last to arrive in the room.

Henry watched Webster; not for one moment was he unaware of Webster’s movements. He had had enough of him. Should Webster dart in his direction, he was ready to turn away abruptly. This meant that he could not, under any circumstances, become involved in an engrossing conversation.

As Webster, indulging in constant laughter, moved across the hall, Henry followed him with his eyes and thus he noticed Hammond for the first time. Hammond was wearing a black suit and a white shirt and a black bow tie. His dark hair seemed shinier and longer than before. He was freshly shaved and this gave his face a thin, pure beauty. As soon as Henry caught his eye, he knew that he had been examining him too closely, that he had, in one flash, given more away than he had done all week. Hammond seemed unembarrassed and did not avert his eyes. He held a tray but did not move from where he stood and managed, without any trace of emotion, to outstare Henry, who was standing in a group, half-listening to an anecdote. Henry returned his attention to the company. Once he withdrew his gaze, he was careful not to look again.

Lord Wolseley had spoken to the orchestra and arranged a small fanfare, and negotiated with the maidservants that at the sound of the music each lady, including his own wife, would venture from her chamber and present herself in the hall for much fussing and admiration. No one was allowed to stay behind. When the fanfare sounded, the gentlemen stood back and the doors were ceremoniously opened. Two dozen ladies descended on the room, all of them wearing elaborate wigs and cakes of make-up and dresses fresh from the greatest paintings of Gainsborough, Reynolds and Romney. The gentlemen applauded as the orchestra played the opening of a waltz.

Lady Wolseley had been right when she told them that her costume would triumph. A mixture of peacock blue and a deep red, her silk dress had an enormous sash, and was full of tucks and flourishes and bulges. It was low-cut to a degree that none of the other ladies had risked. Lady Wolseley was not wearing a wig, merely her natural hair with ringlets added, the connection between the real and the false hair seamless. Her face and eyes had been painted so expertly that it appeared as though she were wearing no make-up at all. Having asked the orchestra to stop playing, she motioned her guests to stand back. Her husband did not seem to know who or what was on the other side. The doors closed and then began slowly to open again.

What they revealed was the child Mona as the Infanta from Velázquez, wearing a dress five times larger than she was. She came as far as the doorway and stood still, keeping her eyes on the far distance, playing perfectly the part of the princess too noble to survey her subjects, abstracted by her great role and destiny, smiling softly as the guests applauded her and declared her to be the success and surprise of the evening.

Immediately, Henry was disturbed by her, the flaunting of her female self, and her own poised alertness to her allure. He searched the faces of the other guests to see if anyone judged as he did on the strange precocity of the child, the unsuitable nature of the attention. But they took their seats in a spirit of innocence and hilarity.

When Henry turned to speak to the lady on his left, he did not recognize her. She was wearing an outlandishly large red wig and a great deal of face paint, but perhaps more importantly, she had not spoken. Once she did speak, he recognized her immediately as the lady who was staying at Dublin Castle, who had been ignored by the Wolseleys.

‘Mr James,’ she whispered, ‘do not ask me if I was invited because I will have to tell you that I was not. My husband is refusing to speak to me and he is sulking back in the castle. But Lord Houghton, who dislikes rudeness, insisted that I come and he asked the other ladies to supervise my costume and render me unrecognizable.’

She glanced around her to see if anyone was listening.

‘My husband says you go where you are asked, but the entire purpose of fancy dress is that these rules don’t exist.’