Gantry edged his way towards Charles, who was in the drawing-room, and stooped to make himself heard.

“Dicky,” he said, “has made off.”

“Where to?”

“I imagine to do the best he can with the girl and her uncle.”

Charles looked at him with something like despair. “There’s nothing to be done,” he said, “nothing. It was shameful.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t she in the next room?”

“I don’t know,” Gantry said.

“I wish to God this show was over.”

“She ought to get on with the present-opening. They won’t go till she does.”

Pinky had come up. “Where’s Mary?” she said.

“We don’t know,” Charles said. “She ought to be opening her presents.”

“She won’t miss her cue, my dear, you may depend upon it. Don’t you feel it’s time?”

“I’ll find her,” Charles said. “Get them mustered if you can, Gantry, will you?”

Bertie Saracen joined them, flushed and carefree. “What goes on?” he inquired.

“We’re waiting for Mary.”

“She went upstairs for running repairs,” Bertie announced and giggled. “I am a poet and don’t I know it!” he added.

“Did you see her?” Gantry demanded.

“I heard her tell Monty. She’s not uttering to poor wee me.”

Monty Marchant edged towards them. “Monty, ducky,” Bertie cried, “your speech was too poignantly right. Live forever! Oh, I’m so tiddly.”

Marchant said, “Mary’s powdering her nose, Charles. Should we do a little shepherding?”

“I thought so.”

Gantry mounted a stool and used his director’s voice, “Attention, the cast!” It was a familiar summons and was followed by an obedient hush. “To the table, please, everybody, and clear an entrance. Last act, ladies and gentlemen. Last act, please!”

They did so at once. The table with its heaped array of parcels had already been moved forward by Gracefield and the maids. The guests ranged themselves at both sides like a chorus in grand opera, leaving a passage to the principal door.

Charles said, “I’ll just see…” and went into the hall. He called up the stairs, “Oh, Florence! Tell Miss Bellamy we’re ready, will you?” and came back. “Florence’ll tell her,” he said.

There was a longish, expectant pause. Gantry drew in his breath with a familiar hiss.

“I’ll tell her,” Charles said, and started off for the door.

Before he could reach it they all heard a door slam and running steps on the stairway. There was a relieved murmur and a little indulgent laughter.

“First time Mary’s ever missed an entrance,” someone said.

The steps ran across the hall. An irregular flutter of clapping broke out and stopped.

A figure appeared in the entrance and paused there.

It was not Mary Bellamy but Florence.

Charles said, “Florence! Where’s Miss Mary?”

Florence, breathless, mouthed at him. “Not coming.”

“Oh God!” Charles ejaculated. “Not now!”

As if to keep the scene relentlessly theatrical, Florence cried out in a shrill voice,

“A doctor. For Christ’s sake. Quick. Is there a doctor in the house!”

It might be argued that the difference between high tragedy and melodrama rests in the indisputable fact that the latter is more true to nature. People, even the larger-than-life people of the theatre, tend at moments of tension to express themselves not in unexpected or memorable phrases but in clichés.

Thus, when Florence made her entrance, one or two voices in her audience cried out, “My God, what’s happened?” Bertie Saracen cried out shrilly, “Does she mean Mary?” and somebody whose identity remained a secret said in an authoritative British voice, “Quiet, everybody. No need to panic,” as if Florence had called for a fireman rather than a physician.

The only person to remain untouched was Dr. Harkness, who was telling a long, inebriated story to Monty Marchant and whose voice droned on indecently in a far corner of the dining-room.

Florence stretched out a shaking hand towards Charles Templeton. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sir!” she stammered. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, come quick.”

“—And this chap said to the other chap…” Dr. Harkness recounted.

Charles said, “Good God, what’s the matter! Is it…?”

“It’s her, sir. Come quick.”

Charles thrust her aside, ran from the room and pelted upstairs.

“A doctor!” Florence said. “My God, a doctor!” It was Marchant who succeeded in bringing Dr. Harkness into focus.

“You’re wanted,” he said. “Upstairs. Mary.”

“Eh? Bit of trouble?” Dr. Harkness asked vaguely.

“Something’s happened to Mary.”

Timon Gantry said, “Pull yourself together, Harkness. You’ve got a patient.”

Dr. Harkness had forgotten to remove his smile, but a sort of awareness now overtook him. “Patient?” he said. “Where? Is it Charles?”

“Upstairs. Mary.”

“Good gracious!” said Dr. Harkness. “Very good. I’ll come.” He rocked slightly on his feet and remained stationary.

Maurice Warrender said to Florence, “Is it bad?”

Her hand to her mouth she nodded her head up and down like a mandarin.

Warrender took a handful of ice from a wine-cooler and suddenly thrust it down the back of Dr. Harkness’s collar. “Come on,” he said. Harkness let out a sharp oath. He swung round as if to protest, lost his balance and fell heavily.

Florence screamed.

“I’m a’right,” Dr. Harkness said from the door. “Tripped over something. Silly!”

Warrender and Gantry got him to his feet. “I’m all right!” he repeated angrily. “Gimme some water, will you?”

Gantry tipped some out of the ice bucket. Dr. Harkness swallowed it down noisily and shuddered. “Beastly stuff,” he said. “Where’s this patient?”

From the stairhead, Charles called in an unrecognizable voice, “Harkness! Harkness!”

“Coming,” Warrender shouted. Harkness, gasping, was led out.

Florence looked wildly round the now completely silent company, wrung her hands and followed them.

Timon Gantry said, “More ice, perhaps,” picked up the wine-cooler and overtook them on the stairs.

The party was left in suspension.

In Mary Bellamy’s bedroom all the windows were open. An evening breeze stirred the curtains and the ranks of tulips. Dr. Harkness knelt beside the pool of rose-coloured chiffon from which protruded, like rods, two legs finished with high-heeled shoes and two naked arms whose clenched hands glittered with diamonds. Diamonds were spattered across the rigid plane of the chest and shone through a hank of disarranged hair. A length of red chiffon lay across the face and this was a good thing.

Dr. Harkness had removed his coat. His ice-wet shirt stuck to his spine. His ear was laid against the place from which he had pulled away the red chiffon.

He straightened up, looked closely into the face, reveiled it and got to his feet.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing whatever to be done,” he said.

Charles said, “There must be. You don’t know. There must be. Try. Try something. My God, try!”

Warrender, in his short-stepped, square-shouldered way, walked over to Harkness and looked down for a moment.

“No good,” he said. “Have to face it. What?”

Charles satt on the bed and rubbed his freckled hand across his mouth. “I can’t believe it’s happened,” he said. “It’s there—it’s—happened. And I can’t believe it.”

Florence burst noisily into tears.

Dr. Harkness turned to her. “You,” he said. “Florence, isn’t it? Try to control yourself, there’s a good girl. Did you find her like this?”

Florence nodded and sobbed out something indistinguishable.

“But she was…” Harkness glanced at Charles. “Conscious?”

Florence said, “Not to know me. Not to speak,” and broke down completely.

“Were the windows open?”

Florence shook her head.