So, really, she must not, really not, talk about the Scots play to other people in the cast. It just kept slipping out. Peregrine Jay had noticed and didn’t like it. I’ll make a resolution, Nina thought. She shut her large, faded eyes tight and said aloud:

“I promise on my word of honor and upon this prayerbook not to talk about you-know-what. Amen.”

“Maggie,” shouted Simon Morten. “Hold on, wait a moment.”

Margaret Mannering stopped at the top of Wharfingers Lane where it joined the main highway. A procession of four enormous lorries thundered past. Morten hurried up the last steep bit. “I got trapped by Gaston Sears,” he panted. “Couldn’t get rid of him. How about coming to the George for a meal? It won’t take long in a taxi.”

“Simon! My dear, I’m sorry. I’ve said I’ll dine with Dougal.”

“But — where is Dougal?”

“Fetching his car. I said I’d come up to the corner and wait for him. It’s a chance to talk about our first encounter. In the play, I mean.”

“Oh. I see. All right, then.”

“Sorry, darling.”

“Not a bit. I quite understand.”

“Well,” she said. “I hope you do.”

“I’ve said I do, haven’t I? Here comes your Thane in his scarlet chariot.”

He made as if to go and then stopped. Dougal Macdougal pulled up to the curb. “Here I am, sweetie,” he declared. “Hullo, Simon. Just the man to open the door for the lovely lady and save me a bash on the bottom from oncoming traffic.”

Morten removed his beret, pulled on his forelock, and opened the door with exaggerated humility. Margaret got into the car without looking at him and said, “Thank you, darling.”

He banged the door.

“Can we drop you somewhere?” Dougal asked, as an afterthought.