Ella Montrose sat next to him. She was fifty, dark and tragic. When in her twenties she had produced two novels; since then she had spent her time reviewing books and writing pars for the literary journals. She might have done better had she reared a family-better that than delving into mystic cults fromOdinism to Voodooism.

Next to Ella Montrose was Martin Lubers, short, dapper, alert and alive, with hazel eyes, clipped moustache, brown hair, and forty years behind him. Nancy wondered how he had managed to stay for a whole week, for he heaved grenades at those likely to differ from him.

She herself sat on Blake’s left, and beside her sat the cold, suave, white-haired Wilcannia-Smythe, reputed to have the most musical pen in Australia. He was slim and always elegant in dress, a rival and yet Mervyn’s firm friend for many years. Beyond him was Twyford Arundal, small, wispy, weak of eye and chin, but a poet of the top flight.

Last, but by no means least distinguished, was Janet Blake, who occupied the other end of the table. Who’s Who gave her age as forty-one, and people felt inclined to argue against that statement Janet Blake was large but notthick, her eyes were dark and restless. Her mouth was generous and yet firm-lipped, and her chin was square and strong. She seldom smiled, and Nancy Chesterfield decided that the house party had “taken a lot out of her”.

All in all, the dinner was a happy affair. The host talked well about nothing and was supported by his friends. Marshall Ellis told of famous novelists with whom he was well acquainted, and, provided one closed one’s eyes, his voice was a delight to the ear.

Subsequently the party gathered in the lounge, where Mrs Blake served coffee. It was then nine o’clock, and at half past nine Mervyn Blake suggested drinks. From then on, no one but Wilcannia-Smythe was worried by an empty glass. Everyone except Marshall Ellis smoked cigarettes, and he smoked cigar after cigar so that the atmosphere became foggily dense, though every door and window was open.