“What?” Troy asked. “What did you say?”

“He’ll see. He notices everything. They’ll say I done it.”

“Who?”

“Everybody. That lot. Them.”

Troy heard herself saying: “Finish it off with soap and water and put down more mats.” The carpet round her easel had, at her request, been protected by upside-down mats from the kitchen quarters.

He gazed up at her. He looked terrified and crafty like a sly child.

“You won’t do me?” he asked. “Madam? Honest? You won’t grass? Not that I done it, mind. I never. I’d be balmy, woon’t I? I never.”

“All right, all right,” Troy almost shouted. “Don’t let’s have all that again. You say you didn’t and I — As a matter of fact, I believe you.”

“Gor’ bless you, lady.”

“Yes, well, never mind all that. But if you didn’t,” Troy said sombrely, “who on earth did?”

“Ah! That’s diffrent, ainnit? What say I know?”

“You know!”

“I got me own idea, ain’ I? Trying to put one acrost me. Got it in for all of us, that sod, excuse me for mentioning it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It seems to me that I’m the one —”

“Do me a favour. You! Lady — you’re just the mug, see? It’s me it was set up for. Use your loaf, lady.”

Mervyn sat back on his heels and stared wildly at Troy. His face, which had reminded her of Kittiwee’s pastry, now changed colour: he was blushing.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’ll think of me, madam,” he said carefully. “I forgot myself, I’m that put out.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “But I wish you’d just explain—”

He got to his feet and backed to the door, screwing the rag round his hand. “Oh madam, madam, madam,” he implored. “I do wish you’d just use your loaf.”

And with that he left her.

It was not until she reached her room and set about washing the turpentine and oil out of her hair that Troy remembered Mervyn had gone to gaol for murdering someone with a booby-trap.

If Cressida had lost any ground at all with her intended over the affair of the cats, it seemed to Troy that she made it up again and more during the course of the evening. She was the last to arrive in the main drawing-room where tonight, for the first time, they assembled before dinner.

She wore a metallic trousered garment so adhesive that her body might itself have been gilded like the two quattrocento victories that trumpeted above the chimney-piece. When she moved, her dress, recalling Herrick, seemed to melt about her as if she were clad in molten gold. She looked immensely valuable and of course tremendously lovely. Troy heard Hilary catch his breath. Even Mrs. Forrester gave a slight grunt while Mr. Smith, very softly, produced a wolf whistle. The Colonel said, “My dear, you are quite bewildering,” which was, Troy thought, as apt a way of putting it as any other. But still, she had no wish to paint Cressida and again she was uneasily aware of Hilary’s questioning looks.

They had champagne cocktails that evening. Mervyn was in attendance under Blore’s supervision, and Troy was careful not to look at Mervyn. She was visited by a sense of detachment as if she hovered above the scene rather than moved through it. The beautiful room, the sense of ease, the unforced luxury, of a kind of aesthetic liberation, seemed to lose substance and validity and to become — what? Sterile?

“I wonder,” said Hilary at her elbow, “what that look means. An impertinent question, by the way, but of course you don’t have to give me an answer.” And before she could do so he went on. “Cressida is lovely, don’t you think?”

“I do indeed but you mustn’t ask me to paint her.”

“I thought that was coming.”

“It would be no good.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It would give you no pleasure.”

“Or perhaps too much,” Hilary said. “Of a dangerous kind.”

Troy thought it better not to reply to this.

“Well,” Hilary said, “it shall be as it must be. Already I feel the breath of Signor Annigoni down the nape of my neck. Another champagne cocktail? Of course you will. Blore!”

He stayed beside her, rather quiet for him, watching his fiancée, but, Troy felt, in some indefinable way, still communicating with her.

At dinner Hilary put Cressida in the chatelaine’s place and Troy thought how wonderfully she shone in it and how when they were married Hilary would like to show her off at much grander parties than this strange little assembly. Like a humanate version of his great possessions, she thought, and was uncomfortable in the notion.

Stimulated perhaps by champagne, Cressida was much more effervescent than usual. She and Hilary had a mock argument with amorous overtones. She began to tease him about the splendour of Halberds and then when he looked huffy added, “Not that I don’t devour every last bit of it. It sends the Tottenham blood seething in my veins like…” She stopped and looked at Mrs. Forrester, who, over folded arms and with a magisterial frown, steadily returned her gaze.

“Anyway,” Cressida said, waving a hand at Hilary, “I adore it all.”

Colonel Forrester suddenly passed his elderly, veined fingers across his eyes and mouth.

“Darling!” Hilary said and raised his glass to Cressida.

Mr. Bert Smith also became a little flown with champagne. He talked of his and Hilary’s business affairs and Troy thought he must be quite as shrewd as he gave himself out to be. It was not at all surprising that he had got on in such a spectacular manner. She wondered if, in the firm of Bill-Tasman and Smith Associates, which was what their company seemed to be called, Mr. Smith was perhaps the engine and Hilary the exquisite bodywork and upholstery.

Colonel Forrester listened to the high-powered talk with an air of wonderment. He was beside Troy and had asked to “take her in” on his arm, which she had found touching.

“Do you follow all this?” he asked her in a conspiratorial aside. He was wearing his hearing aid.

“Not very well. I’m an ass at business,” she muttered and delighted him.

“So am I! I know! So am I! But we have to pretend, don’t we?”

“I daren’t. I’d give myself away, at once.”

“But it’s awfully clever. All the brain work, you know!” he murmured, raising his brows and gazing at Troy. “Terrific! Phew! Don’t you agree?”

She nodded and he slyly bit his lip and hunched his shoulders.

“We mustn’t let on we’re so muddly,” said the Colonel.

Troy thought: this is how he used to talk to thoroughly nice girls when he was an ensign fifty years ago. All gay and playful with the “Destiny Waltz” swooning away on the bandstand and an occasional flutter in the conservatory. The chaperones thought he was just the job, no doubt. And she wondered if he proposed to Aunt Bed on a balcony at a regimental ball. But what the devil was Aunt Bed like in her springtide, Troy wondered, and was at a loss. A dasher, perhaps? A fine girl? A spanker?

“… so I said, ‘Do me a favour, chum. You call it what you like: for my book you’re at the fiddle! Distinguished and important collection! Yeah? So’s your old man!’ Nothing but a bunch of job-burgers, that lot.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Uncle Bert,” said Hilary definitively and bent towards his aunt.

“That’s a very nice grenade you’re wearing, Auntie darling,” he said. “I don’t remember it, do I?”

“Silver wedding,” she said. “Your uncle. I don’t often get it out.”

It was a large diamond brooch pinned in a haphazard fashion to the black cardigan Mrs. Forrester wore over her brown satin dress. Her pearls were slung about her neck and an increased complement of rings had been shoved down her fingers.

Mr. Smith, his attention diverted from high finance, turned and contemplated her.

“Got ’em all on, eh?” he said. “Very nice, too. Here! Do you still cart all your stuff round with you? Is that right? In a tin box? Is that a fact?”