“But of course I had to,” Mr. Joyce conceded, with a wide gesture and an air of candour. “You’re dead right. I did want the photograph. All the same, it’s a matter of professional etiquette, you know. My paper doesn’t believe in pulling fast ones. That’s not the Sun’s policy at all. In proof of which, I shall retire gracefully upon a divided house.”

He carried his drink over to Miss Cost and sat beside her. Mrs. Barrimore got up and moved away. Dr. Mayne took her empty glass and put it on the bar.

There was an uncomfortable silence, induced perhaps by the general recollection that they had all drunk at Mr. Joyce’s expense and a suspicion that his hospitality had not been offered entirely without motive.

Mrs. Barrimore said: “Good night, everybody,” and went out.

Patrick moved over to Jenny. “I’m going fishing in the morning if it’s fine,” he said. “Seeing it’s a Saturday, would it amuse you to come? It’s a small, filthy boat and I don’t expect to catch anything.”

“What time?”

“Dawn. Or soon after. Say half past four.”

“Crikey! Well, yes, I’d love to if I can wake myself up.”

“I’ll scratch on your door like one of the Sun King’s courtiers. Which door is it? Frightening, if I scratched on Miss Cost’s!”

Jenny told him. “Look at Miss Cost, now,” she said. “She’s having a whale of a time with Mr. Joyce.”

“He’s getting a story from her.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! And tomorrow, betimes, he’ll be hunting up Wally and his unspeakable parents. With a camera.”

“He won’t!”

“Of course he will. If they’re sober they’ll be enchanted. Watch out for K.J.’s ‘What’s the Answer’ column in the Sun.”

“I do think the gutter press in this country’s the rockbottom.”