He seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and extract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a strange fool, and yet piquant.

‘But Pussum,’ said another man, in a very small, quick Eton voice, ‘you promised not to hurt him.’

‘I haven’t hurt him,’ she answered.

‘What will you drink?’ the young man asked. He was dark, and smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour.

‘I don’t like porter, Maxim,’ she replied.

‘You must ask for champagne,’ came the whispering, gentlemanly voice of the other.

Gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him.