‘Hallo, Griselda. What a dress!’

The first person she had met was Kynaston, and she was not as pleased as immediately after she had last left him, she would have expected to be.

‘Hullo, Geoffrey. Don’t think me rude, but I’m on my way upstairs.

Probably it was rude, but she could not help it. Her mood was expansive, something she could not recall having previously felt; and about Geoffrey there seemed an enclosed and private air unsuited to a large convivial gathering. Though, she recollected, she did not know him very well; so that possibly this was wrong.

Approaching her room she felt unreasonably agitated; and entering it, much more unreasonably disappointed. The room was empty. From one of the dressing-table drawers she took the dance programme Mrs Hatch had given her; and looked at it for the first time. There were three names inserted in Mrs Hatch’s clear handwriting (one of them twice), none of them known to Griselda, except that of Edwin Polegate-Hampden, inserted not, as he had hoped, for the first but for the supper dance. There were no names inserted after supper. Griselda was wholly ignorant of the procedure on these occasions, but had thought that dance programmes were obsolete. She wondered whether it was usual for the hostess, unasked, to arrange in this way partners for her guests. It might be important to ascertain whether it was the custom or merely a peculiarity of Mrs Hatch’s. Then Griselda thought of Stephanie des Bourges and hurried from the room, her final preparations abbreviated. This, she felt, was no time to meet a ghost. She wondered where Louise was; and shivered slightly.

Suddenly hundreds of people had arrived. The hall was full and quite a queue extended down the long passage, lined with palms and baskets of flowers, which extended to the resuscitated ballroom, recently the scene of Doris’s dusty labours. At the entrance to the ballroom Mrs Hatch was shaking hands with people, and introducing them to Mr Leech, who stood on her right, himself looking rather in need of a dust, and to another man, standing on her left, whom Griselda divined to be Mr Minnit, the Leader of the Opposition. Mr Minnit was a determined-looking elderly man with sparse black hair and a raucous penetrating voice. His evening suit made an even poorer impression than Mr Leech’s, because, besides having been worn for longer, it had cost less in the first place. Grouped round the trio were a number of men whom Griselda, identifying one or two of them, took to be some of the new Cabinet. Few of them made a more favourable impression than did either of their leaders.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to come down.’ It was Kynaston again. ‘I’m quite as terrified by all this as you are.’

Griselda realized that she wasn’t terrified at all. She considered herself much better dressed than most of the other women; and, quite possibly, no less generally attractive. Looking round her, she even began to wonder whether she would show herself much inferior as a dancer. She smiled at Kynaston to give him confidence, and because she still felt she might have been rude to him.

Just then the band struck up. ‘You hear that?’ said Kynaston. ‘You’d better get your hostess’s money’s worth.’

They began to make their way along the crowded passage. Kynston shook hands with Mrs Hatch, who asked after his poetry. Then they entered the ballroom.

It was a fine large room, though not very inspired architecturally, and expensively decorated not only with vegetation of various kinds but also with a number of patriotic motifs. At one end of the rectangle, the platform occupied by the band was banked with hundreds of carnations which pleasantly perfumed the otherwise already slightly smoky air. At the other end was another, smaller platform, now unoccupied but the purpose of which was clear, as it was swathed in red, white, and blue fabric, and bore an ominous green baize-topped table, with three hard chairs. Above this platform were two oval plaques, edged with laurel, and bearing lively messages from Lord Beaconsfield and John Burns. Presumably many of the guests were not expected to take the floor, as round the walls was ranged a triple rank of gilt chairs with crimson seats, their thin red line becoming disordered as people sat upon them; but already the enthusiastic and the impetuous were in action, their faces settling down to ecstasy or boredom. The long far wall of the room contained a line of big French windows, uncurtained against the chance that later the growing heat might require them to be opened. Griselda wondered who might be without these windows, unseen but all-seeing.

As Kynaston led Griselda on to the floor, they encountered Edwin with a fascinatingly beautiful young partner. Briefly he introduced her as the Marchioness of Wolverhampton. ‘See you later,’ he said to Griselda, in an accent of warm significance. Griselda watched them glide away. Obviously Edwin’s dancing was as flawless as everything else about him. Griselda wondered why he should elect to sup with her instead of with the incomparable Marchioness; or whether this also was Mrs Hatch’s doing.

Griselda danced three times with Kynaston, not precisely with elation, but certainly with competence. Her ancient inhibition against being intimately clasped by a little-known male had not disappeared, but was perhaps in abeyance. In practice, the whole curious transaction seemed, at least with Kynaston, unexpectedly impersonal. They said little, the monotonous music thrummed in Griselda’s brain, and she felt completely mistress of the situation, while still unclear why such store was commonly set by the pastime. Possibly things would be different in the circumstances advocated by the Duchess; but surely it must be only occasionally that the habitual dancer could dance with a partner whose body inspired to passion? Griselda wondered whether possibly she suffered from some physiological deficiency akin to tone-deafness. She then listened with her conscious ear to the music, and deemed that the matter was not worth undue concern.

The business had its social problems, however. Griselda’s fourth dance had been allocated by Mrs Hatch to an unknown named Mr Coote. She did not know who Mr Coote was, but when she announced his imminence to Kynaston, she was startled to learn that Kynaston had taken it for granted that she would be dancing with him (Kynaston) throughout the evening.

‘You said you wanted me to ward off other males.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You couldn’t abide being pawed.’

‘Mrs Hatch has arranged the next dance for me.’

‘What do you think I’m going to do? I don’t know a soul here – if anybody here has a soul; and they’re not the kind of people I want to know. Not that I’m likely to be introduced. I’m a mixture of a poor relation and the local tradesman.’

‘What would you have done, if you hadn’t met me?’

‘Contrived to bring Doris. Of course, I much prefer you, but I’ve made a very fair dancer out of Doris, and she’s vastly better than having to talk about the state of the nation with a string of politicians.’

The situation was dissolved by Mrs Hatch appearing with Mr Coote.

‘Let me introduce Mr Coote, Griselda; your next partner. This is Griselda de Reptonville. I told Mr Coote about you while you were out of the house and he asked me for a dance with you.’

‘The reality exceeds the description,’ said Mr Coote.

It was a waltz and Mr Coote was heavy on other people’s feet. While dancing, however, he maintained a steady flow of conventionally complimentary verbiage, of a type which Griselda was surprised to find still existed, but which began heavily to pall in an astonishingly short period of time. Griselda had always understood that men preferred to talk about themselves and tried to direct the conversation in that likely direction. But Mr Coote was unexpectedly reticent. Griselda could only gather that though not in the political limelight, he occupied an entirely indispensable position far behind the scenes.

‘Sort of Chief Foreman, you know. The chap who sees that the roundabout is oiled. Poor sort of job at times, I find it. Let’s talk about something pleasanter. Our excellent hostess told me you had short hair but I never knew short hair could be so attractive.’

Suddenly Griselda noticed something odd. Mrs Hatch was dancing with (and much better than) Pamela.

Mr Coote was, Griselda recollected, the one of her three allotted partners who recurred. He was due to reappear for the next dance but one. Apart from anything else, it seemed poor planning, like selling all the adjoining seats in a theatre, instead of spacing the audience about.

This little trouble solved itself, however, in the very instant that Griselda had thought of it.

As the dance number (it was a bagatelle entitled ‘Mooning with the Moon’) neared its point of cessation, Mr Coote suddenly crumpled up in the most dramatic possible way. He dropped his partner, clutched the lower part of his belly with both hands, became instantly green in the face, and lurched groaning to one of the gilt chairs which had strayed out among the dancers. There he sat, odd pairs of dancers occasionally navigating round the back of him, until two muscular and efficient footmen assisted him away, their hands under his armpits. Now that the music had stopped, his dreadful groans were clearly audible above the hubbub of talk; but so expertly was the incident disposed of, that few were clearly aware of what had happened, and none sustained any notable setback in jollity.

Griselda had been left isolated not far from the centre of the floor, and, so thick were the dancers, could not reach Mr Coote before he was whisked away.

‘If that doesn’t teach you, I cannot imagine what will. You see what happens when you try to fraternize with the people.’ It was, of course, Kynaston. Griselda could have struck him. Then she saw the large shape of George Goss coming towards her, solitary and menacing.

‘Better me, don’t you think, after all?’ said Kynaston, comprehending the entire situation. Griselda, really furious at his deliberate or careless misunderstanding of the need for her to dance with Mr Coote, placed her hand on his arm; and the music started once more, this time a number entitled ‘You Twisted Me Before I Twisted You.’

‘You don’t have to do this the whole time, of course,’ said Kynaston.

‘Indeed no. Later I am partnering a Mr Mackintosh, and after that Edwin Polegate-Hampden for the supper dance.’

‘To hell with them. I didn’t mean that. I meant that we could sit out sometimes.’

Absurdly, Griselda had overlooked this possibility.

Out of the corner of her eye she observed George Goss lumber off the floor disappointed.

‘Don’t I seem to know your unlucky friend?’

‘George Goss,’ said Griselda.

‘I’m flattered that you prefer me. George Goss is the only really first-rank painter now alive in England. Probably in the world. When I looked at his Holy Family at the Leicester Gallery last autumn. I cried like a child.’

It was by no means the end of George Goss, for immediately the dance was over, there he was again.

‘Could we please do what you said,’ appealed Griselda to Kynaston, ‘and sit this one out?’ It was to have been Mr Coote’s second dance, and Griselda considered that even he would have been preferable to George Goss.

‘Let’s look for the refreshments,’ said Kynaston. ‘I expect there are some.’ He put his arm round her waist to lead her away. It was hard on George Goss and Griselda smiled at him as she departed. He stood looking after her, fixed like a toad.

But it was not to be. Mrs Hatch appeared.

‘As Mr Coote has been taken away, I should like you to meet Lord Roller.’ Mrs Hatch’s memory for the details she herself had organized, was appalling.

The great Lord Roller, whose revelations had just shaken the entire world and lay behind the present festivity, was tall and stout, though dignified and wearing the most perfectly cut clothes.

‘Melanie suggests that we should dance,’ he said in an attractive cultivated voice. ‘But I should prefer to sit and talk for just the few minutes allotted to me.’

Griselda consented with relief. Kynaston prowled away, presumably after liquor.

‘It’s not that I never dance. On the contrary, twenty years ago I used to be considered rather good. But I’ve been having a tiring time lately and this evening, as you know, is rather a strain on some of us.’

Griselda said she could well understand. They sat. They had moved round the perimeter of the dance floor looking for two empty chairs and had reached the comparatively inaccessible and deserted window side of the room.

‘However, no more of that. Let us talk of something else. What do you do in the world?’

‘Very little. For various reasons it’s difficult for me to leave home.’

‘That’s bad. The days when women stayed at home are over. For better or for worse. But over, I assure you. What are the reasons, or ought I not to ask?’

Griselda hesitated. But Lord Roller had achieved his position in the world by being under all circumstances unfailingly reasuring.

‘My Mother, mainly.’

‘Illness?’

‘Not exactly. Though she suffers a lot.’

‘I won’t enquire further.’ Changing the subject, he said kindly, pointing out a well-known figure: ‘You know that’s George Goss the painter?’

‘Yes. He’s staying in the house.’

‘I’ve known him since we were at Winchester together. Then he was a splendid young chap. Full of life. Quite irresistable. He did a drawing of me a year or two ago and I must say I thought he’d become something of an ox. When I saw the drawing I realized that he thought the same of me.’

‘You’re not at all like him,’ said Griselda.

‘Our lives have been different. Mine has been spent in the City, like the rest of my family. I haven’t been able to let myself go in the way a great painter can. Despite appearances, I suspect I’m very much the man I was when I was at school. I observe that the Prime Minister hasn’t been provided with a water bottle.’ He pointed to the bare green table at the end of the room. ‘That’s bad. Later I’ll have to see that something is done about it.’

The Duchess passed dancing with Edwin. Seeing Lord Roller, she smiled radiantly; then, observing that he was in conversation with Griselda, smiled again, a little ruefully.

‘I’ve been in love with Odile for twenty years,’ said Lord Roller. ‘To attempt concealment would be quite unavailing.’

‘You know you said you wouldn’t enquire further?’

‘Yes. I said that. Do you want me to enquire further? If so, I shall.’

‘Am I a pest? I should like advice.’

‘I know very little about the world outside business and politics. For that reason I should be honoured to advise you. I have all the confidence of ignorance. What is it about?’

It was the next dance and Griselda looked round for Kynaston, but there was no sign of him. She and Lord Roller went on talking.

‘I have decided to leave home. My Mother will have to get on as best she can.’

‘I can see that this is an entirely new resolution. I hope it is not based on what I just said. You must not take an old man, ignorant of life, too literally.’

‘No, Lord Roller. It is a new resolution, but I made it before I met you. The question is what best to do afterwards.’

‘I hardly know you well enough to advise you upon that. In any case, it is the most useless thing it is possible to advise upon. If you have no clear and conscious vocation in life, I advise you to marry and have children as soon as possible. Of course, I speak as a bachelor.’

‘I want your advice on something much more definite. I have few claims to a job of any kind, and, of course, a job I must have. A friend of mine has offered me one in the Secretariat of Sociology. It sounds pretty dull, because all the good jobs go to people with degrees, and I have no degree; but I have to promise to stick to it for three years. I don’t want to do that unless the result amounts to something, however small my contribution. I am sure you know all about the Secretariat of Sociology. Does it amount to anything?’

‘To save a young woman from the Secretariat of Sociology,’ replied Lord Roller, ‘I would offer her a job myself. With all the new regulations the coalition will introduce, we shall be able to carry more passengers in the business. I quite understand that you wish not to be a passenger, but that is unusual, and you can take over the work of someone on our staff who does. If you care to write to me, I’ll see what can be done. It will at least be somewhere near productive employment.’

‘But I have no capacity. I cannot even type.’

‘If typing is necessary and you do not learn to type within a month of our engaging you, we shall, of course, engage you no longer. You said you wanted to do work which amounted to something. That is the sort of obligation which work amounting to something involves.’

Griselda said: ‘Naturally.’

He rose.

‘I have enjoyed our talk. Now I must see that the Prime Minister is given his water-bottle, because the speeches will be soon, I regret to say. Have you a partner for the next dance?’

It was Mr Mackintosh’s turn.

‘Please do not wait, Lord Roller, if time is getting on. I’ll find him myself.’

‘We may meet again.’

‘Thank you for your advice.’

He bowed and departed. His gait was full of distinction, his expression of confidence. As he passed through the throng, he nodded affably from time to time.

There was still no sign of Mr Mackintosh, and Griselda, feeling isolated, and still fearing George Goss, began, faute de mieux, to look round for Kynaston. Almost at once, she saw him. He was dancing with Pamela. Where previously Griselda had resented his attaching himself so calmly and firmly to her, she now resented his having anything to do with Pamela. In both cases resentment was only one of many feelings jumping about in Griselda’s mind, most of them without rising to consciousness: and in both cases she felt that resentment was unreasonable.

Not wishing Kynaston, or Pamela either, to see her sitting by herself, she removed to a less conspicuous chair in the back row near a window. She recalled the term ‘wallflower’ and wished someone nice would speak to her. She still thought her appearance compared favourably with the appearance of the other women present, but all her immediate neighbours were dull looking people seated in small groups, indifferent to the dancing, but talking among themselves, sometimes acrimoniously. Griselda desperately wished that Louise could be there.

She began to study the scene impersonally. Though there were some beautiful women and distinguished looking men, the majority impressed as rowdy but dreary. They had, of course, Griselda recalled, been largely assembled for political rather than social reasons. There had been no sign of Mr Leech since the fun began and Mrs Hatch had now also disappeared, after a sequence of strenuous dances, doubtless in order to settle final details of the feast of rhetoric which impended. Mr Minnit, on the other hand, was dancing energetically with, as Griselda supposed, his wife. The Duke was now partnering the ravishing Lady Wolverhampton; and the Duchess one of the better dressed among the new Cabinet Ministers. In one corner there had been a minor disturbance for some time. Griselda had been only vaguely aware of the turmoil; now she perceived that it arose from attempts to prevent one of the splinter parties from posting propaganda bills on the ballroom wall. Mercifully George Goss was not to be seen. Possibly he was gone for a drink.

‘Do you think it was wise of us to exclude the Communists?’

One of the group around Griselda had dried up conversationally and a member on the outskirts of it addressed her. He was elderly in the extreme and resembled a distinguished nonconformist dignitary.

Griselda considered the question.

‘I don’t see what else we could have done.’

‘I think our appeal should be to all groups in the nation: to forget the past and think only of the future.’ The speaker’s voice and accents were great-grandpaternal. ‘I’ve always been a radical; and what are the Communists but today’s radicals? I’d be a Communist myself if I were still a young man.’

‘Hardly Zec. Not with your collection of fine old stocks and shares,’ said a hard-faced woman in his group, almost Zec’s contemporary.

‘It’s Travis Raunds who’s responsible for their not being invited,’ Zec grumbled on. ‘The man’s nothing but a despot. What do you think, young woman? Let us heed the voice of youth.’

‘I’d rather leave it,’ replied Griselda prudently, ‘to whoever issued the invitations. But tell me about Sir Travis Raunds. Is he here?’

‘Over there,’ said Zec stabbing a desiccated forefinger towards the opposite side of the room. ‘The old deathshead to the right of the centre mirror. Most reactionary man in the country. I’ve fought him all my life and he’s fought me.’

‘You flatter yourself,’ said the hard-faced woman.

Griselda stared at the man mentioned by Louise, father of Louise’s friend, Hugo Raunds. Though obviously very old, Griselda found him the most striking-looking man in the room. He had a considerable quantity of white hair, fine aristocratic bones, and a yellowish skin. Despite his years, he sat very upright and his expression was that of a censorious Buddha. His long mouth had finely shaped lips, his nose was magnificently powerful, he was clean shaven, and his eyes, Griselda, whose sight was excellent, could see across the room, were a clear yellow.

‘Is his son Hugo here too?’ asked Griselda.

The effect was unexpected. Zec stared into Griselda’s eyes, his own the colour of granite setts and as unyielding, then said: ‘Young woman, it is time you learned that to shock and insult your elders is never amusing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Griselda calmly. ‘Hugo Raunds is only a name to me. I know nothing whatever about him.’

‘I think,’ said the hard-faced woman, ‘that you’d be well advised to leave it at the apology.’ Clearly she supported Zec in aggression though in however little else.

Griselda was about to rise from her chair and walk away when she became aware of tapping on the high French window behind her.

‘I told you Hugo was a very secret man,’ said the voice of Louise.

Griselda nearly fell off her chair with surprise.

The window had been opened and stood slightly ajar. Louise’s pale face and large glasses were just visible through the gap.

‘Have you got a partner?’

‘No. I’m a wallflower.’

‘Come away.’

Louise’s hand entered through the gap, took Griselda by the wrist, and with unexpected strength drew her outside into the garden before she had time to consider. Louise shut the window and fastened it as easily as she had opened it. The two of them looked through the glass at the disgusted faces of Zec and his friends. A few of the other guests had noticed the brief draught; and it was clear that already, seconds later, they had forgotten it. Even Zec did not consider the incident worth rising from his seat to investigate.

‘Louise, I’ll be cold.’

‘I think not. If you are, there’s a cloak.’

‘Where?’

‘In the Temple of Venus.’

‘What’s that?’

‘One of the Duke of St Helens’s follies. We’re going there.’

Indeed it was one of those precocious spring days which anticipate or excel Midsummer. There were stars and a moon. How very wrong Mullet had been!

Louise had changed into a simple but elegant black coat and skirt and a white silk shirt. The night was full of her perfume.

‘You can see the Temple of Venus at the end of the vista. But the Water of Circe lies between us and it; so, as we have to go round it, the walk’s longer than it looks.’

‘Circe lived on an island.’

‘There is an island. In the middle of the lake. It’s where she’s buried.’

‘Circe?’

‘No. Not Circe.’

‘Stephanie?’ Griselda almost whispered.

‘Of course.’

They set out. It was a broad grassy way, cut wonderfully short. In lines parallel with the grass were beds of flowers just coming into bloom, but drained of what colour was theirs by the moon.

‘What about the dew?’ Griselda’s shoes were for dancing.

‘There is no dew. That means it will probably rain tomorrow. We must make the most of tonight.’

‘Yes, you can smell in the flowers that rain’s coming.’

‘This morning’s rain also.’

‘It would be nice if it sometimes stayed fine for longer on end,’ said Griselda.

‘Nice. But, like most nice things, probably unnatural,’ replied Louise. ‘What do you think of dancing?’

‘I’ve never danced before tonight – or rather today.’

‘I know.’

‘Was it so obvious?’

‘It came out. Never mind. How do you like it?’

‘I think that much depends on one’s partner.’

‘When does it not?’

They walked in silence the few more steps which brought them to the edge of the lake.

‘Don’t look back till we’re round the other side and have the lake between us and the house,’ said Louise; and Griselda never thought of disobeying.

‘Give me your hand,’ continued Louise. ‘The path round the lake is wooded and much rougher. There are roots.’ Griselda placed her warm right hand in Louise’s chilly left one.

As soon as they had entered the trees the music from the house rapidly faded away.

‘The path twists,’ said Griselda.

‘The Duke did not intend the shortest way between two points.’

‘But the trees grow very regularly.’

‘They do not grow. They were planted. This is called the Grove of the Hamamelids because every tree bears a fruit.’

Griselda did not know what Hamamelids were or had been, but the new blossom was ubiquitous, claiming alike the senses of sight, smell, hearing, and touch.

‘It’s an orchard.’

‘No, Griselda, it’s a grove. It’s believed to be the only grove of its kind anywhere.’

After many swift sinuosities the path reached and crossed a wooden bridge in what appeared to be the Chinese style. The blossom, the moon, and the bridge compounded a scene very like to the Orient before one got there, thought Griselda.

‘This is the stream which feeds the lake,’ said Louise.

‘Where’s the path?’ asked Griselda, looking round. Beyond the bridge it appeared simply to stop, although hitherto it had been wide enough for the two of them abreast.

‘The path ends here. After they crossed this bridge, the Duke and Stephanie had no need of it; nor were others desired to follow them.’

Griselda and Louise found their way hand in hand among the trees along the edge of the lake until they rediscovered the vista.

‘Now you can look back.’

Across the water and up the other half of the vista the house, normally a trifle obvious in aspect, appeared unbelievably mysterious. The misty moonlight blurred all detail, but across the line of long lighted windows the keen eyes of Griselda could see the moving figures metamorphosed into beauty by night and distance. Looking at them as they danced, it was impossible to believe they were the people Griselda had just left. At that distance she could imagine herself longing to join them.

‘If it were all like that,’ she said, ‘we would neither of us ever wish to leave.’

Now they were out of the grove, the music just reached them.

Turning their backs on the sound and once more retreating from the populous house, they continued towards the Temple of Venus, now black before them at the other end of the vista.

‘I want to see you again, Louise,’ said Griselda. ‘After I leave Beams.’

‘We will talk about that when we get to the Temple. It may not be possible, Griselda.’

If there was any doubt, Griselda did not want to talk about it. She changed the subject.

‘Do you often come to the Temple?’

‘Only at night, when I can’t be seen. I wear black and it is not difficult to remain unobserved.’

‘Did the Duke build the Temple for Stephanie?’

‘Yes. She lived in the house, but she was happiest in the Temple. She was seldom happy, poor Stephanie.’

‘Like you, poor Louise.’

‘Like us, poor Griselda.’

‘I’m happy tonight.’

Louise did not reply.

They walked the short distance remaining in silence.

At first sight in the darkness the Temple seemed to consist of a portico, surprisingly lofty, and with Ionic columns. Up three broad steps was a chamber open to the garden and appearing semicircular in the moonlight.

‘Before you enter,’ said Louise, stopping Griselda at the foot of the steps, ‘I think you had better put on this mask.’ She produced a black velvet domino from a pocket of her jacket. Griselda was about to demur or enquire further, but thought better of it, and consented without a word to Louise putting the mask round her eyes and tying it tightly at the back of her head. Louise knew how to do this so that the wearer had no uncomfortable sensation that the mask was about to slip.

‘I like it,’ said Griselda; and immediately ascended the steps.

Inside, a seat ran the length of the curved back wall, broken only by a large door in the centre, which gave access to an inner apartment of the Temple. In the middle of the floor was a huge marble bench, wide and long, and curving up at both ends into Ionic flutings. On the Bench were a number of large cushions, looking darkly purple; over which was spread a huge black cloak.

‘Put it on,’ said Louise. ‘Put it on and sit down.’

Griselda again did as she was told. The cloak seemed the right length, and was a businesslike garment with simple black buttons, which Louise proceeded to fasten, shutting Griselda in. Griselda realized that she was now nearly invisible. For no clear reason she felt a sudden palpitating rush of excitement, bereaving her of all reasonable thoughts.

‘Now sit down.’

Griselda’s normally strong legs were weak and she was glad to obey. Louise sat at the other end of the bench, her beautiful neck whiter in the smoky moonlight than her white shirt.

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’ Louise’s tone was warm but enigmatic.

‘You’ll be cold.’

‘Oh . . . No, I shan’t be cold. But we’d better speak softly.’

‘Why?’ This question Griselda knew to be absurd, but her excitement was such that she had no difficulty in restraining a wild hilarity.

‘It’s better.’ Louise paused, then again began to speak, very low. ‘I’ve kidnapped you and brought you here so that we can make some plans. It was necessary that we could be sure of being alone, and also this is the best place.’

‘The best place in which to plan?’ enquired Griselda, equally softly. She had either to shout or to whisper. She felt she might easily faint.

‘Yes, Griselda. If you wish to plan. I don’t know whether you do or not. You said you did, but perhaps it was only the beauty of the night or a reaction from other people.’

‘Will it be difficult?’ Griselda’s voice was barely audible.

‘It will be very difficult, Griselda. I love you.’

Immediately Griselda felt completely calm; an entirely and absolutely different person. She would never be the same person again.

‘I love you, Louise,’ she replied in a level voice, still pitched low.

After a moment’s silence, Louise said ‘It’s a pity that the world instead of being at our feet, has to be about our ears.’

Griselda replied: ‘As I said in my bath, I know very little about the world.’

‘That, though a good thing.’ said Louise, ‘is also a bad thing. It makes the next step difficult.’

‘No,’ said Griselda. ‘I think it makes the next step easy. I’m so innocent that whatever the next step is, I’ll take it without a second thought.’

‘Will you live with me?’

‘I’ve decided to leave home. Where else should I go?’

‘We could share a loft.’

‘That would be rather expensive for us. I’ve very little money. At least until I get a job.’

‘What sort of job?’

‘Lord Roller offered me something.’

‘Are you going to take it?’

‘If it would enable us to share a loft.’

Louise looked her in the face. Louise’s smile was full of tears and anguish: she took Griselda’s hand.

‘The air is, I am sure, full of nightingales,’ she said, ‘if only we could hear them.’

‘This is their night,’ said Griselda. ‘Tomorrow it’s going to rain.’

‘Does that stop them singing?’

‘Unless they are very imprudent nightingales.’

‘I can’t see your face,’ said Louise. ‘It is entirely overshadowed by a column.’

‘Of course you can’t. Am I not totally invisible?’

Griselda thought that when she said this Louise looked round the Temple in a way more anxious than she cared for. Then Louise said: ‘For my part I have no money at all. And not only that but I hate work of any kind. I hate not to be free.’

‘I’ve never yet had a real job,’ replied Griselda. ‘I am not looking forward to that particular part of it at all.’

‘I wonder if Hugo would give us an allowance? He understands people like us.’

But Griselda noticed something.

‘Look Louise. That door’s open. It was shut when we came in.’

Louise started up. The black door interfered with the columnar pattern on the carpet of moonlight.

‘And there’s someone coming.’

Louise’s perfume was suddenly heavy on the air. Louise stood quite upright, her back to the garden and the moon, her eyes on the open door. There were undoubtedly footsteps.

But it became clear that the steps were outside the temple. A figure appeared between the columns.

‘What’s going on in there?’

It was a policeman. He flashed his lamp, ineffective in the moonlight, upon Griselda’s dark figure.

Louise wheeled round.

‘Officer,’ she said, ‘please return to your fireside. No one is in need of help.’

‘Sorry miss,’ the policeman replied. ‘I thought you might be reds.’

‘You can see at a glance,’ said Louise, ‘that we’re not.’

‘Yes miss,’ said the policeman.

‘I don’t know so much,’ cried Griselda, rising to her feet. ‘Look at me.’ Cloaked and masked, she was the perfect operatic conspirator.

‘I can see you’re nothing you shouldn’t be, miss,’ replied the officer. ‘Just like the lady said. Still we have to be careful. The whole house and garden’s surrounded.’

‘Surrounded by what?’ asked Griselda.

‘By the force, miss. We have our orders. There’ve been half a dozen of us on duty all the evening not a quarter of a mile from this outhouse. Spread about of course. Well, I must be getting back to them. Good night, ladies.’

At this moment the door of the inner apartment of the Temple banged shut as unaccountably as it had opened. The policeman jumped.

‘I’d better have a look round.’ The beam of his lamp made a dim circle on the heavy painted woodwork of the door.

‘There’s no one there,’ said Louise. ‘It often happens.’

‘If you say so, miss – ’ He thought for a moment, then looked at Louise searchingly. ‘Quite sure, miss?’

‘Quite sure, officer. I often come here at night.’ Her tone was unbelievably patrician.

‘Very well.’

Again he bade them Good-night. They reciprocated; and this time he departed.

‘We must go back,’ said Louise. ‘Soon they’ll be looking for you.’

‘Shall I leave my cloak?’

‘No. When we reach the house I’ll take it.’

Silently they returned upon their tracks.

They were only a few paces from the shore of the lake.

Louise remarked. ‘I don’t know how Stephanie is going to behave about this. She is, after all, a Belgian.’

Griselda shivered inside her warm cloak, but said nothing. They entered the Grove of the Hamamelids.

‘You know,’ said Louise after a while, ‘you know that Stephanie was at the Temple?’

‘Yes,’ said Griselda. ‘I know.’

‘It was a mistake. I didn’t expect her tonight. But I knew she was there even before we got there ourselves. Her scent is the same as mine. I fear she may go after revenge. Though that would be rather absurd of her.’

‘Revengeful people don’t think of that.’

‘Poor Stephanie! But, after all, Griselda, she is only a ghost.’ Louise suddenly laughed very musically.

‘I don’t want at all to be gloomy, but do you think I shall be all right alone in the haunted room?’

Immediately she had spoken, she jumped violently. They had crossed the wooden bridge. The figure of a man was visible among the trees. His back was towards the two women and he appeared much occupied at some labour.

The women stopped for a moment; then Louise held Griselda’s hand very tightly and they advanced together. Not until they were right up to the man, did he learn of their presence.

‘Good evening, miss,’ he said, seeing Griselda’s long cloak. ‘Didn’t expect any of the guests to walk this far from the house.’ His voice was sombre.

‘Good evening,’ said Griselda.

He was leaning on a spade. He was elderly and enormous.

‘For her Highness’s dog.’ He indicated a pit he had dug. ‘The best place for ’im on the ’ole property. And if you listen you can ’ear ’em knocking up the little chap’s coffin.’

Through the still moonlight night came indeed a very distant hammering.

‘Poor little Fritzi,’ said Griselda. Louise was lurking indistinctly among the foliage.

‘Dunno about that, miss,’ said the Gravedigger. ‘Reckon ’e was ripe.’ Lifting his spade he plunged it up to the haft into the soft black earth. Though hideous, he was still hale in the extreme.

‘Good night,’ said Griselda, who found the subject distasteful.

Louise drew further into the bushes.

‘Goodnight, miss. I must get on with things.’ He was again digging rhythmically.

Louise rejoined Griselda as if she had been her shadow. The coffin makers appeared to be working somewhere in the Grove iself.

‘The policeman began it,’ said Louise. ‘Now the whole garden is polluted. Let’s get back as quickly as possible.’ She walked faster.

‘But before they came,’ said Griselda, ‘we were happy.’ She remembered her unforgettable dream of the night before.

Worse was upon them. As they left the Grove they saw that the vista up to the house was spotted with guests. Several of the long windows had been thrown open. Through them came a certain sound, not of music Griselda realized. The speeches were afoot and most of the guests had left the ballroom. It was incredible that it was not later and the speeches over. But then she had no idea how long they had been continuing, despite Mrs Hatch’s injunction of brevity. After all, she recollected, it was a turning point in history, and enthusiasm might well have carried the orators much beyond the dictates of deference to their hostess.

A man in evening dress seemed in hopeful spirit to be approaching the two lone women.

‘The cloak,’ said Louise brusquely. ‘I shall need it to get away in.’ Unbuttoning it, she had it off Griselda’s and about her own shoulders before Griselda could utter the enquiry of all lovers.

‘When shall I see you?’

The man in evening dress was near.

‘I’ll contrive. Bless you.’ On the words, Louise was gone. Her black figure flitted for a second in the moonlight and had vanished.

‘Good evening,’ said the man. ‘You look very romantic. Can we go further away from the sound of the human voice?’ He tried to take Griselda’s arm.

‘Thank you,’ said Griselda. ‘But I want to hear the speech.’

‘Then what are you doing out here?’ Frustration made his tone didactic and patronizing.

‘I felt faint and needed some air.’ No excuse could be too conventional for the commonplace creature.

‘Minnit’s hour-long pronouncement of his own righteousness had that effect upon many of us. His objective, you know, was to cut Leech out of his broadcasting time.’ Presumably the man now hoped to gain his end through general conversation. ‘Pretty low trick, don’t you think? Or are you perchance one of Minnit’s supporters?’ He smiled; and his tone again reminded Griselda of Stephenson’s remark that foremost in the character of every man is the schoolmaster.

‘No,’ said Griselda. ‘I have no politics. Will you please excuse me? I must go back to the house.’

He was so startled by the failure of his charms that, writing Griselda off as in some way peculiar, he did not even propose to escort her. Griselda could not feel that his observations boded well for the new coalition government. But possibly he was unrepresentative. Soon she would see. She crept in at the window through which she had joined Louise in the garden.

The scene was transformed. Most of the gilt chairs were ranged in irregular rows across the dance floor in front of the speakers’ platform. Though by no means all the chairs were occupied, many of the remaining audience were drooping packed together on their feet behind the backmost row. The emptiness of the chairs and the crowd standing behind them combined to make an effect of desolation. Many of the women looked bored. Many of the men looked aggressive. It was plain why Mrs Hatch had demanded brevity. Amplifiers had been lowered from the ceiling and every now and then emitted a resonant croak as the technicians dismantled the broadcasting aparatus, the end of the time allotted to the feature being long past. Each time the amplifiers croaked, Mr Leech stopped short in his flow of words and glowered momentarily upwards before resuming. Often this resulted in his losing the place in his notes.

Even without foreknowledge, it would have been obvious that the Prime Minister had been speaking for some time. His sparse colourless hair stood straight on end, his face was the colour of cheese, and he was thumping continuously when he had a hand free, in the effort to awake from slumber the long defunct interest of his auditory. ‘Time presses,’ he cried, ‘and the festivities offered by our splendid hostess will soon once more be calling us. We have already addressed you for far too long.’ Mr Leech, while one eye roamed from table-top to audience, glared momentarily with the other at Mr Minnit, who sat slumped forward upon the green baize, his head upon his arms. As with Lady Macbeth, it was impossible to deduce from Mr Minnit’s eyes whether he slept or waked. He was, Griselda realized, a man of very unusual appearance. ‘But,’ continued Mr Leech, ‘it would be improper indeed were I, for any reason whatever, to bring these remarks to an end before coming to the dire and daunting circumstances which have prompted me to begin them.’ This time Mr Leech did not thump, but it made little difference.

‘I have spoken,’ he continued, ‘of our great traditions, our unique heritage, of literature, art, and science, of our public school system, our mercantile genius, our sportsmanship, our village hostelries, our ancient monuments, Magna Carta, the noble City of London, the late terrible world conflict, our aircraft and balloons, our love of animals, and the faith we repose in our young folk. Shining through and igniting the whole splendidly coloured picture is one theme peculiar to our people alone: the theme of initial failure transmuted into ultimate success, immediate disaster into final victory.’ There was an unexpected burst of cheering. Not even the prevailing need for food could wholly deaden so conditioned a reflex.

‘And what has been the philosopher’s stone which has wrought the miracle? Always it has been one thing only: our readiness for sacrifice.’ Some of the older people nodded their agreement. ‘I venture to say before you all, that no other people has so often had demanded of it so many sacrifices. As page follows page of history we read the same story: the story of final ruin averted by ruinous sacrifice. And on too many of those pages we see that the writing was in sacrificial blood. Tonight it may appear that the need is less; not for blood, but for toil and taxes and toil again, to rebuild the sinews of greatness.’

But, if so, it appeared wrongly. For when Mr Leech came to these words, there was a flash and a detonation; and the ballroom momentarily took on the aspect of a battlefield. The Communists had contrived to throw a bomb.

A group of about a dozen classless figures had appeared from nowhere, screaming slogans and distributing leaflets. One of them even had a banner, bearing a highly coloured portrait of Engels on one side, and a quotation in German on the other (the article having been salvaged from a sympathetic foreign organization recently dissolved by the authorities).

Griselda, whose first political meeting this was, looked around terrified. Fortunately, however, there appeared to have been no loss of life, or even major injury, and what blood the historian could have drawn upon, had come mainly from noses. There was, however, a terrible smell of poor quality chemicals and burnt cardboard. The victims of the outrage were setting themselves and their chairs upon their feet, adjusting their garments and calling for redress. Those who had not been bowled over, were even more belligerent, having more available energy.

Immediately a flood of policemen armed with batons poured through the french windows, and made a series of arrests. The Communists were borne off into the scented night, twisting and biting. One of them had been standing close to Griselda, screeching out vilifications, his face that of a modern gargoyle. In the rough and tumble with the police he was knocked out and dragged from the ballroom by the legs.

‘Ladies and gentleman. Supper is served.’

Mrs Hatch had resumed control. Griselda was startled by the volume of the cadaverous Brundrit’s voice, as he stood at the other side of the ballroom, just inside the door from the passage.

For the most part, the guests pulled themselves together smartly, and another long queue began to form. The Communists had provided everyone with something to talk about. A small group, however, remained round the platform, and between the heads Griselda could see that both Mr Leech and Mr Minnit lay recumbent in their chairs. Recalling for the second time during the visit her slight knowledge of first-aid, she was about to go forward and offer assistance, when a handsome figure detached itself from the group and approached. It was Edwin.

‘How entirely that mask becomes you.’

Griselda had forgotten. She groped at the knot behind her head.

‘No. Don’t take it off. Unless, of course, you wish; in which case you must allow me to assist.’

‘Clearly it is no disguise.’

‘Were you seeking to escape supper?’

Griselda remembered. It was appalling.

‘I went out in the garden. I am dreadfully rude.’

‘Not at all. The speeches, you know, were to have been after supper. The broadcasting arrangements were responsible for the change. It’s late, but at least we’ve now nothing to do but enjoy ourselves.’ He offered Griselda his arm. They moved towards the tail of the queue.

‘What about poor Mr Leech?’ Edwin’s lack of concern seemed inconsistent with his usual attitude to Cabinet Ministers.

‘He’ll be better soon. One becomes used to these things in politics.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘They’re all to the good really. They bring the sediment to the surface so that it can be skimmed off instead of seeping all through society.’

‘How did they get in?’

‘In the BBC van. This is going to take a long time.’ The queue was advancing at a pace so irksome to the ravening guests that, here and there, some of them had to recall to others the conventions of behaviour. ‘If you’ll excuse me for just a single minute, I’ll see if something can be done.’

With a precise movement Edwin replaced Griselda’s arm by her side, then disappeared out of the ballroom and into the passage, leaving her alone in the queue. Shortly afterwards he returned.

‘I’ve made arrangements.’

Ignoring the queue, he took Griselda into a little book-lined study, where the Duke and Duchess, together with a group of elegant people Griselda had not met, were eating and drinking in privacy. Everybody was speaking German, in which language Edwin immediately gave every appearance of being word-perfect, though Griselda could not be sure. He conversed animatedly with her, every now and then throwing out a remark in German to the others; and looked after her needs with delightful punctiliousness. She was introduced to the strangers, who made her welcome in broken English, and complimented her upon her mask. The Duchess, radiant in her tight dress, kept a kindly eye upon her welfare. Though Griselda understood little of the general conversation (Edwin was discussing the year’s books with her), the atmosphere was friendly and delightful. Griselda had become very hungry in the night air. She ate happily, and drank luxuriously from a glass with a hollow stem.

Suddenly the Duchess cried out in her attractive voice ‘Shall we have a game?’ She had been speaking German so much as a German does, and now spoke English so much as does an English-woman long married to a foreigner and resident abroad, that Griselda was at a loss to decide her nationality, whether English, German, or Ruritanian.

Conversation ceased and there were guttural cries of assent. They all seated themselves round a large polished table and the Duchess explained to Griselda the rules of an extremely simple card game. They began to play. The game was neither dependent on chance nor exigent of skill: it demanded a degree of intelligence which Griselda, in the circumstances, found perfectly appropriate and delightful. The language difficulty seemed strangely to vanish once they were all immersed, giving Griselda a dreamy illusion of brilliant communicativeness. Small sums of money continually passed, the women every now and then turning out their gay evening handbags for change. Edwin continued to ply Griselda with champagne, nor were the other players backward in drinking. From time to time Griselda wondered what was becoming of the dance, but decided that if the others were unconcerned, she would be unconcerned also. It had been obvious that the main business of the evening was over by the time she had left the ballroom.

No one had interrupted them, but, at the end of a round, suddenly one of the men, a fair youth, resembling Lohengrin, said something in German, and, rising, locked the door. Several of the women (whose ages were unusually disparate), thereupon embarked on motions apparently preliminary to removing their clothes.

Griselda was a little drunk, but not too drunk to observe that her new friends seemed unanimously to turn to some new pursuit upon a word from one of them.

The women were wearing little and the present process could not last long. Almost before it started, however, the Duchess realized that Griselda, as a stranger among them and of a different nation from the majority, might wish to leave. Probably the young man, in making his proposal, had forgotten about her. But at a word, he unlocked the door, they all ceremoniously bade her Good-night, and Edwin escorted her into the hall. The door shut behind them.

Outside the little room it was cool and quiet. Griselda found that all the other guests had apparently departed.

‘I expect,’ said Edwin, ‘that you must be ready for bed. Or can I do anything further?’

‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Griselda, drowsy with drink. ‘You have been really very kind to me. I enjoyed the Duchess’s card game.’

‘I think the others have gone up already.’ Edwin and Griselda were drifting towards the staircase.

‘I am sure they have. Good night. And thank you again.’

‘Good night, Griselda.’ It was obvious that, in the most considerate possible way, he wished to be rid of her. She ascended.

Even at this distance the air was loaded with the smell of the banked carnations in the ballroom. It had long since overpowered the smell of cordite.