Nine years ago – Sybil only six, Joan only four then! Time went, things changed! A new generation! And what was the difference! ‘I think we had more tradition!’ she said to herself softly.

A slight sound drew her eyes up from contemplation of her feet Ting-a-ling was moving his tail from side to side on the hearth-rug, as if applauding. Fleur’s voice, behind her, said:

‘Well, darling, I’m awfully late. It was good of you to get me Mr Minho. I do hope they’ll all behave. He’ll be between you and me, anyway; I’m sticking him at the top, and Michael at the bottom, between Pauline Upshire and Amabel Nazing. You’ll have Sibley on your left, and I’ll have Aubrey on my right, then Nesta Gorse and Walter Nazing; opposite them Linda Frewe and Charles Upshire. Twelve. You know them all. Oh! and you mustn’t mind if the Nazings and Nesta smoke between the courses. Amabel will do it. She comes from Virginia – it’s the reaction. I do hope she’ll have some clothes on; Michael always says it’s a mistake when she has; but having Mr Minho makes one a little nervous. Did you see Nesta’s skit in The Bouquet? Oh, too frightfully amusing – clearly meant for L.S.D.! Ting, my Ting, are you going to stay and see all these people? Well, then, get up here or you’ll be trodden on. Isn’t he Chinese? He does so round off the room.’

Ting-a-ling laid his nose on his paws, in the centre of a jade green cushion.

‘Mr Gurding Minner!’

The well-known novelist looked pale and composed. Shaking the two extended hands, he gazed at Ting-a-ling, and said:

‘How nice! How are you, my little man?’

Ting-a-ling did not stir. ‘You take me for a common English dog, sir!’ his silence seemed to say.

‘Mr and Mrs Walter Nazon, Miss Lenda Frow.’

Amabel Nazing came first, clear alabaster from her fair hair down to the six inches of gleaming back above her waistline, shrouded alabaster from four inches below the knee to the gleaming toes of her shoes; the eminent novelist mechanically ceased to commune with Ting-a-ling.

Walter Nazing, who followed a long way up above his wife, had a tiny line of collar emergent from swathes of black, and a face, cut a hundred years ago, that slightly resembled Shelley’s. His literary productions were sometimes felt to be like the poetry of that bard, and sometimes like the prose of Marcel Proust. ‘What oh!’ as Michael said.

Linda Frewe, whom Fleur at once introduced to Gurdon Minho, was one about whose work no two people in her drawing-room ever agreed. Her works Trifles and The Furious Don had quite divided all opinion. Genius according to some, drivel according to others, those books always roused an interesting debate whether a slight madness enhanced or diminished the value of art. She herself paid little attention to criticism – she produced.

‘The Mr Minho? How interesting! I’ve never read anything of yours.’

Fleur gave a little gasp.

‘What – don’t you know Mr Minho’s cats? But they’re wonderful. Mr Minho, I do want Mrs Walter Nazing to know you. Amabel – Mr Gurdon Minho.’

‘Oh! Mr Minho – how perfectly lovely! I’ve wanted to know you ever since my cradle.’

Fleur heard the novelist say quietly:

‘I could wish it had been longer;’ and passed on in doubt to greet Nesta Gorse and Sibley Swan, who came in, as if they lived together, quarrelling over L.S.D., Nesta upholding him because of his ‘panache’, Sibley maintaining that wit had died with the Restoration; this fellow was alive!

Michael followed with the Upshires and Aubrey Greene, whom he had encountered in the hall. The party was complete.

Fleur loved perfection, and that evening was something of a nightmare. Was it a success? Minho was so clearly the least brilliant person there; even Alison talked better. And yet he had such a fine skull. She did hope he would not go away early. Someone would be almost sure to say ‘Dug up!’ or ‘Thick and bald!’ before the door closed behind him. He was pathetically agreeable, as if trying to be liked, or, at least, not despised too much. And there must, of course, be more in him than met the sense of hearing.