'Did you find much change this evening?' asked Dawson.

'No. The cyanosis is worse. There's only slight pulmonary congestion, but the heart is obviously failing.'

'His illness of 1928 ran a heavy overdraft on his powers of recuperation.' Dawson paused, menu-card in hand. Seventeen years later, Eliot was to see it again, at a dinner on the evening of his patient's granddaughter's Coronation. 'I must not delay this message, but I hope for another word alone with you this evening. About yourself.' Dawson hesitated. 'If this Government-or a future Government-decides to take over the medical profession, the wisest of us will safeguard ourselves, and our fellow-doctors, by becoming sufficiently important in the eyes of the country to dictate the terms.'

They exchanged glances. 'Very well,' said Eliot.

That night did not end for Eliot until six o'clock. Nancy was asleep, smeared with cold cream, the bedside lamp burning. She stirred as he gently opened the door. 'He's dead?'

'At five to midnight. I had to stay up. The embalmers got lost.' Eliot tore off his wing-collar. 'I could do with a bath, but it's about half a mile away. What a ridiculous country! Why must snobbishness be equated with unnecessary discomfort?'

The Becketts lived in a castle, gutted and refurbished with steam heating, gushing plumbing, hygienic kitchens, efficient drains. Its off-white reception rooms were designed as a favour by Syrie Maugham, and hung with Impressionists chosen by Nancy's admirer Lord Duveen. Nobody gets value for money like an American millionairess.

'When's the funeral?'

'Today week. It's been planned by Lord Wigram and the Lord Chamberlain down to the last tap of muffled drums. Parliament must meet, and Stanley Baldwin's going on the wireless.' He sat on the silk coverlet, taking her chin in his hand. His eyes gleamed with the mingled excitement and exhaustion she seldom saw now. 'Why must you lard yourself like a joint for the oven, old thing?'