“Here she is now.”

The door had opened again and Anelida had come through with Richard. They were both very white. Again a single voice was heard. Miss Bellamy’s. “Do you suppose for one moment that I’m taken in…” and again Warrender shut the door.

“Well, Nelly darling,” Octavius said. “I promised to remind you that we must leave early. Are you ready?”

“Quite ready,” Anelida said. She turned to Charles Templeton and offered him her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’ll slip out under our own steam.”

“I’m coming,” Richard announced grimly.

“So there’s nothing,” Charles said, “to be done?”

“I’m afraid we must go,” Octavius said.

“We’re running late as it is,” Anelida agreed. Her voice, to her own astonishment, was steady. “Good-bye,” she said, and to Richard, “No, don’t come.”

“I am coming.”

Octavius put his hand on her shoulder and turned her towards the end of the room.

As he did so a cascade of notes sounded from a tubular gong. The roar of voices again died down, the musicians stood up and began to play that inevitable, that supremely silly air.

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you…

The crowd in the far room surged discreetly through into the dining-room, completely blocking the exit. Richard muttered, “This way. Quick,” and propelled them towards a door into the hall. Before they could reach it, it opened to admit a procession: the maids, Gracefield with magnums of champagne, Florence, Cooky, in a white hat and carrying an enormously ornate birthday cake, and Old Ninn. They walked to the central table and moved ceremoniously to their appointed places. The cake was set down. Led by Dr. Harkness the assembly broke into applause.

“Now,” Richard said.

And at last they were out of the room and in the hall. Anelida was conscious for the first time of her own heartbeat. It thudded in her throat and ears. Her mouth was dry and she trembled.

Octavius, puzzled and disturbed, touched her arm. “Nelly, my love,” he said, “shall we go?”

“Yes,” Anelida said and turned to Richard. “Don’t come any further. Goodbye.”

“I’m coming with you. I’ve got to.”

“Please not.”

He held her by the wrist. “I don’t insult you with apologies, Anelida, but I do beg you to be generous and let me talk to you.”

“Not now. Please, Richard, not now.”

“Now. You’re cold and you’re trembling. Anelida!” He looked into her face and his own darkened. “Never again shall she speak to you like that. Do you hear me, Anelida? Never again.” She drew away from him.

The door opened. Pinky and Bertie came through. Pinky made a dramatic pounce at Anelida and laid her hand on her arm. “Darling!” she cried incoherently. “Forget it! Nothing! God, what a scene!” She turned distractedly to the stairs, found herself cut off by the cinema unit and doubled back into the drawing-room. The camera men began to move their equipment across the hall.

“Too much!” Bertie said. “No! Too much.” He disappeared in the direction of the men’s cloakroom.

Timon Gantry came out. “Dicky,” he said, “push off. I want a word with this girl. You won’t do any good while you’re in this frame of mind. Off!”

He took Anelida by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said. “You will rise above. You will not let this make the smallest difference. Go home, now, and sort yourself out. I shall judge you by this and I shall see you on Thursday. Understood?” He gave her a firm little shake and stood back.

Warrender appeared, shutting the door behind him. He glared wretchedly at Anelida and barked, “Anything I can do — realize how distressed… Isn’t it?”

Octavius said, “Very kind. I don’t think, however…”

Richard announced loudly, “I’ll never forgive her for this. Never.”

Anelida thought, “If I don’t go now I’ll break down.” She heard her own voice, “Don’t give it another thought. Come along, Unk.”

She turned and walked out of the house into the familiar square, and Octavius followed her.

“Richard,” Warrender said, “I must have a word with you, boy. Come in here.”

“No,” Richard said, and he too went out into the square.

Gantry stood for a moment looking after him.

“I find myself,” he observed, “unable, any longer, to tolerate Mary Bellamy.”

A ripple of applause broke out in the dining-room. Miss Bellamy was about to cut her birthday cake.

Miss Bellamy was a conscientious, able and experienced actress. Her public appearances were the result of hard work as well as considerable talent, and if one principle above all others could be said to govern them, it was that which is roughly indicated in the familiar slogan “The show must go on.” It was axiomatic with Miss Bellamy that whatever disrupting influences might attend her, even up to the moment when her hand was on the offstage doorknob, they would have no effect whatsoever upon her performance.

They had none on the evening of her fiftieth birthday. She remained true to type.

When the procession with the cake appeared in the dining-room beyond the glass wall of the conservatory, she turned upon the persons with whom she had been doing battle and uttered the single and strictly professional order: “Clear!”

They had done so. Pinky, Bertie, Warrender and Gantry had all left her. Charles had already gone. Only Marchant remained, according, as it were, to the script. It had been arranged that he escort Miss Bellamy and make the birthday speech. They stood together in the conservatory, watching. Gracefield opened the champagne. There was a great deal of laughter and discreet skirmishing among the guests. Glasses were distributed and filled. Gracefield and the maids returned to their appointed places. Everybody looked towards the conservatory.

“This,” Marchant said, “is it. You’d better bury the temperament, sweetie, for the time being.” He opened the door, adding blandly as he did so, “Bitch into them, dear.”

“The hell I will,” said Miss Bellamy. She shot one malevolent glance at him, stepped back, collected herself, parted her lips in their triangular smile and made her entrance.

The audience, naturally, applauded.

Marchant, who had his own line in smiles, fingered his bow-tie and then raised a deprecating hand.

“Mary, darling,” he said, pitching his voice, “and everybody! Please!”

A press photographer’s lamp flashed.

Marchant’s speech was short, graceful, bland, and for the most part, highly appreciated. He made the point, an acceptable one to his audience, that nobody really understood the people of their wonderful old profession but they themselves. The ancient classification of “rogues and vagabonds” was ironically recapitulated. The warmth, the dedication, the loyalties were reviewed and a brief but moving reference was made to “our wonderful Mary’s happy association with, he would not say Marchant and Company, but would use a more familiar and he hoped affectionate phrase — the ‘Management.’ ” He ended by asking them all to raise their glasses and drink “to Mary.”

Miss Bellamy’s behaviour throughout was perfect. She kept absolutely still and even the most unsympathetic observer would scarcely have noticed that she was anything but oblivious of her audience. She was, in point of fact, attentive to it and was very well aware of the absence of Richard, Pinky, Bertie, Warrender and Gantry — to say nothing of Anelida and Octavius. She also noticed that Charles, a late arrival in his supporting role of consort, looked pale and troubled. This irritated her. She saw that Old Ninn, well to the fore, was scarlet in the face, a sure sign of intemperance. No doubt there had been port-drinking parties with Florence and Gracefield and further noggins on her own account. Infuriating of Old Nina! Outrageous of Richard, Pinky, Bertie, Maurice and Timon to absent themselves from the speech! Intolerable, that on her birthday she should be subjected to slight after slight and deception after deception: culminating, my God, in their combined treachery over that boney girl from the bookshop! It was time to give Monty a look of misty gratitude. They were drinking her health.