On the day before the ball a great cold descended on Dublin and Henry was forced to return early from his walk in the grounds. He found himself passing by one of the small rooms downstairs in the Wolseleys’ apartments. Lady Wolseley was busy gathering wigs together so that the ladies could try them on before dinner. Mr Webster was with her, and Henry stopped in the doorway, preparing himself to speak to them. They were involved in the game of choosing the wigs, examining them and laughing and handing them one to the other, like conspirators in some happy dream as Lady Wolseley forced Webster to try on a wig and then threw her head back with laughter as he tried it on her. They were too deep in conspiracy to be decently interrupted. Suddenly, he noticed that the child Mona was seated in one of the armchairs. She was doing nothing, neither assisting them at the round table, nor joining in whatever joke had caused them to turn towards each other once more, Lady Wolseley covering her mouth with her hand.

Mona was a picture of girlish perfection, but as Henry watched her he noticed how hard she seemed to be concentrating on the scene in front of her. Her gaze was neither puzzled nor hurt, but there was a sense that she was putting energy into a look of mild contentment and sweetness.

He pulled himself back from the doorway just as Lady Wolseley let out another shrill laugh at some remark of Mr Webster’s. In his last glimpse of Mona she was smiling as though the joke had been a pleasantry to amuse her, everything about her an effort to disguise the fact that she was clearly in a place where she should not be, listening to words or insinuations she should not have to hear. He went back to his rooms.

He thought about the scene he had witnessed, how vivid it was for him, like an event he had observed before and knew well. He sat in his own armchair and allowed his mind to picture other rooms and doorways, other silent lockings of eyes and his own distant presence, as he read into the moment a deeply ambiguous meaning. He realized now that this was something he had described in his books over and over, figures seen from a window or a doorway, a small gesture standing for a much larger relationship, something hidden suddenly revealed. He had written it, but just now he had seen it come alive, and yet he was not sure what it meant. He pictured it again, the girl so innocent, and her innocence so crucial to the scene. There was nothing, no nuance or implication, which she did not seem capable of taking in.

When he looked up, Hammond was calmly watching him.

‘I hope I didn’t disturb you, sir. The fire needs constant attention in this weather. I will try not to make any noise.’

Henry was aware that at the moment he had lifted his head from his reveries, Hammond had been studying him unguardedly. And now he was making up for it by moving quickly, as though he were going to remove the coal scuttle without speaking again.

‘Have you seen the little girl, Mona?’ Henry asked him.

‘Recently, sir?’

‘No, I mean since she arrived.’

‘Yes, I meet her in the corridors all the time, sir.’

‘It’s strange for her to be alone here with no one else her own age. Does she have a nurse with her?’

‘Yes, sir, and her mother.’

‘What does she do all day, then?’

‘God knows, sir.’

Hammond was studying him again, examining him with an intensity which was almost unmannerly. Henry returned his gaze as calmly as he could. There was silence between them. When Hammond finally averted his eyes, he seemed pensive and depressed.

‘I have a sister who is the age of Mona, sir. She is pretty.’

‘In London?’

‘Yes, sir, she is the youngest by far. She is the light of all our lives, sir.’

‘Does Mona put her in your mind when you see her?’

‘My sister does not roam freely sir, she is a real treasure.’

‘Surely Mona is protected by her nanny and, indeed, her mother?’

‘I’m sure she is, sir.’

Hammond cast his eyes down, looking troubled as though he wished to say something and was being prevented. He turned his head towards the window and remained still. The light caught half his face while half stayed in shadow; the room was quiet enough for Henry to hear his breathing. Neither of them moved or spoke.

Henry appreciated that if anyone could see them now, if others were to stand in the doorway as he had done earlier, or manage to see in through the window, they would presume that something momentous had occurred between them, that their silence had merely arisen because so much had been said. Suddenly, Hammond let out a quick breath and smiled at him softly and benignly before taking a tray from the table and leaving the room.

HENRY FOUND himself that evening close to Lord Wolseley at supper and thus free, he thought, from Webster. One of the ladies beside him had read several of his books and was much exercised by their endings and by the idea of an American writing about English life.

‘You must find us quite blank compared to the Americans,’ she said. ‘Lord Warburton’s sisters in your novel, now they were quite blank. Now Isabel isn’t blank or Daisy Miller. If George Eliot had written Americans, she would have made them quite blank too.’ She clearly enjoyed the phrase ‘quite blank’ and placed it in several more of her comments.

Webster, in the meantime, could not stop attempting to control the table. When he had teased all the women about what they could not, or would not, or might not wear at the ball, he turned his attention to the novelist.

‘Mr James, are you going to visit any of your Irish kinsmen while you are here?’

‘No, Mr Webster, I have no plans of any sort.’ He spoke coldly and firmly.

‘Why, Mr James, the roads, thanks to his lordship’s steady command of the forces, are safe from marauders. I’m sure her ladyship would put a carriage at your disposal.’

‘Mr Webster, I have no plans.’

‘What was the name of that place, Lady Wolseley? Bailieborough, that’s right, Bailieborough in County Cavan. It is where you will find the seat of the James family.’

Henry noticed Lady Wolseley blushing and keeping her eyes from him. He looked at her and at no one else before turning to Lord Wolseley and speaking softly.

‘Mr Webster will not desist,’ he said.

‘Yes, a stretch in barracks might improve his general deportment,’ Lord Wolseley said.

Webster did not hear this exchange but he saw it, and it seemed to irritate him that both men had smiled knowingly at each other.

‘Mr James and I,’ Lord Wolseley boomed down the table, ‘were agreeing that you have a considerable talent for making yourself heard, Mr Webster. You should consider putting it to some useful purpose.’

Lord Wolseley looked at his wife.

‘Mr Webster will one day be a great orator, a great Parliamentarian,’ Lady Wolseley said.

‘When he learns the art of silence he will be a very great orator indeed, even greater than he is now,’ Lord Wolseley said.

Lord Wolseley turned back to Henry. They studiously ignored the other end of the table. Henry felt as though he had been struck with something and the blow had stunned him into pretending that he was following Lord Wolseley, while with all his secret energy he concentrated on what had just been said.

He did not mind Webster’s clear malice; he would never, he hoped, have to see him again, and Lord Wolseley’s words had meant that Webster would never be able to raise his voice at the table again. Rather it was the sneer on Lady Wolseley’s face when Webster had mentioned Bailieborough that Henry remembered. It had disappeared quickly, but nonetheless he had seen it and she knew he had seen it. He was still too shocked to know whether it was careless or deliberate. He simply knew that he had done nothing to provoke it. He also knew that Webster and Lady Wolseley had discussed him and his family’s origins in County Cavan. He did not know, however, where they had got their information.