His acquaintance with Jonathan Royal was some five years old. Late in the nineteen-thirties, Jonathan had backed one of Mandrake’s plays; and though it had not made a fortune for either of them it had unexpectedly paid its way and had established their liking for one another. Mandrake’s latest play, “Bad Black-out” (finished since the outbreak of war but, as far as the uninstructed could judge, and in spite of its title, not about the war), was soon to go into rehearsal with an untried company of young enthusiasts. He had spent two days at the Winton St. Giles Rectory with his leading lady and her father, and Jonathan had asked him to come on to Highfold for the week-end.

His entrance into Jonathan’s library was effective, for he had motored over Cloudyfold bare-headed with the driving window open, and the north wind had tossed his hair into elf-locks. He usually did the tossing himself. He advanced upon Jonathan with his hand outstretched, and an air of gay hardihood.

“An incredible night,” he said. “Harpies and warlocks abroad. Most stimulating.”

“I trust,” said Jonathan, shaking his hand and blinking up at him, “that it hasn’t stimulated your Muse. I cannot allow her to claim you this evening, Aubrey.”

“Oh God!” said Mandrake. He always made this ejaculation when invited to speak of his writing. It seemed to imply desperate aesthetic pangs.

“Because,” Jonathan continued, “I intend to claim your full attention, my dear Aubrey. Our customary positions are reversed. For to-night — yes, and for tomorrow and the next day — I shall be the creator, and you the audience.” Mandrake darted an apprehensive glance at his host.

“No, no, no,” Jonathan cried, steering him to the fireside, “don’t look so alarmed. I’ve written no painful middle-age belles-lettres, nor do I contemplate my memoirs. Nothing of the sort.”

Mandrake sat opposite his host by the fire. Jonathan rubbed his hands together and suddenly hugged them between his knees. “Nothing of the sort,” he repeated.