The exhibition and the pop music came to an end and Mr. Jones’s high spirits seemed to die with them. In the deafening silence that followed Ricky felt he had to speak. He said, “Thank you very much for letting me see them.”

“Don’t give me that,” said Mr. Jones yawning hideously. “Obviously you haven’t understood what I’m doing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stuff it. You smoke?”

“If you mean what I think you mean, no, I don’t.”

“I didn’t mean anything.”

“My mistake,” Ricky said.

“You ever take a trip?”

“No.”

“Bloody smug, aren’t we?”

“Think so?” Ricky said and not without difficulty struggled to his feet. Miss Harkness was fully extended on the divan bed and was possibly asleep.

Mr. Jones said, “I suppose you think you know what you like.”

“Why not? Anyway that’s a pretty crummy old crack, isn’t it?”

“Do you ever look at anything that’s not in the pretty peep department?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know,” Mr. Jones said. “Such as Troy. Does the name Troy mean anything to you, by the way?”

“Look,” Ricky said, “it really is bad luck for you and I can’t answer without making it sound like a payoff line. But, yes, the name Troy does mean quite a lot to me. She’s — I feel I ought to say ‘wait for it, wait for it’—she’s my mother.”

Mr. Jones’s jaw dropped. This much could be distinguished by a change of direction in his beard. There were, too, involuntary movements of the legs and arms. He picked up a large tube of paint, which he appeared to scrutinize closely. Presently he said in a voice pitched unnaturally high: “I couldn’t be expected to know that, could I?”