Mr. Mailer said: “Indeed, yes. May I introduce: The Baron and Baroness Van der Veghel.”

They shook hands eagerly and were voluble. They had read all the books, both in Dutch (they were by birth Hollanders) and in English (they were citizens of the world). They had his last (surely his greatest?) work actually with them — there was a coincidence! They turned to Mr. Mailer. He, of course, had read it?

“Indeed, yes,” he said exactly as he had said it before. “Every word. I was completely rivetted.”

He had used such an odd inflection that Barnaby, already on edge, looked nervously at him, but their companions were in full spate and interrupted each other in a recital of the excellencies of Barnaby’s works.

It would not be true to say that Mr. Mailer listened to their raptures sardonically. He merely listened. His detachment was an acute embarrassment to Barnaby Grant. When it had all died down — the predictable hope that he would join them for drinks (they were staying in the hotel) the reiterated assurances that his work had meant so much to them, the apologies that they were intruding and the tactful withdrawal, had all been executed — Barnaby found himself alone with Sebastian Mailer.

“I am not surprised,” Mr. Mailer said, “that you were disinclined to renew our acquaintance, Mr. Grant. I, on the contrary, have sought you out. Perhaps we may move to somewhere a little more private? There is a writing-room, I think. Shall we—?”

For the rest of his life Barnaby would be sickened by the memory of that commonplace little room with its pseudo empire furniture, its floral carpet and the false tapestry on the wall: a mass-produced tapestry, popular in small hotels, depicting the fall of Icarus.