“Where?”

“Australia.”

“No. I’m a New Zealander.”

“Same thing.”

She looked up and found him grinning at her. He made the gesture of wiping the smile off his face. “Oh, dear,” he said.

Martyn finished her tea and stood up. “I must start my job,” she said.

“Feel better?”

“Much, much better.”

“Would it be quite a spell since you ate anything?”

“Yesterday.”

“I never fancy drinkin’ on an empty stomach, myself.”

Her face burnt against the palms of her hands. “But I don’t… I mean, I know. I mean I was a bit faint and somebody… a girl… she was terribly kind…”

“Does yer mother know yer aht?” he asked ironically, and took a key from a collection hung on nails behind the door. “If you must work,” he said.

“Please.”

“Personally escorted tour abaht to commence. Follow in single file and don’t talk to the guide. I thank you.”

She followed him to the stage and round the back of the set. He warned her of obstructions by bobbing his torchlight on them and, when she stumbled against a muffled table, took her hand. She was disquieted by the grip of his fingers, calloused and wooden, and by the warmth of his palm, which was unexpectedly soft. She was oppressed with renewed loneliness and fear.

“End of the penny section,” he said, releasing her.

He unlocked a door, reached inside and switched on a light

“They call this the Greenroom,” he said. “That’s what it was in the old days. It’s been done up. Guv’nor’s idea.”

It was a room without a window, newly painted in green. There were a number of armchairs in brown leather, a round table littered with magazines, a set of well-stocked bookshelves and a gas fire. Groups of framed Pollock’s prints decorated the walls: “Mr. Dale as Claude Amboine.” “Mr. T. Hicks as Richard I.” “Mr. S. French as Harlequin.” This last enchanted Martyn because the diamonds of Mr. French’s costume had been filled in with actual red and green sequins and he glittered in his frame.