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weather had been thick you would have been able to come. I don’t mind,’ I said, and I meant it. I avoided catching Charles’s eye in order to continue to mean it. Jacko was still arguing in an unconvinced way when Innes left and we all made a dive for Johnson, who was doubled up screeching with laughter and continued to laugh while we got his coat and tie off and finally opened his shirt.
    He had a winter-weight woollen vest underneath it, and Poppy. I helped him dress while Jacko lit out for Mouse Hall to return her. I admired Johnson’s jersey.
    He was pleased. ‘I have an uncle who knits them in Margate,’ he added, with a faint wistfulness. ‘Is Maurice Frazer giving a party?’
    One forgets how famous Maurice is. Long before he bought the villa and the garden and the observatories, Maurice had wintered in Italy on the proceeds of his work in the theatre. Everyone in Roman society came to see Maurice. And English and French society. And American. And South American, even. And every pretty girl in the civilized world, whether in society or not. Maurice is seventy or more and Timothy, who looks after him, is his hostess. They are past scandal, but never past gossip. Maurice’s is the finest centre of gossip in Europe.
    I said, ‘Would you like to go?’ because it was easy. Anyone with his wits about him can get into Maurice’s. But to be asked twice to Maurice’s you must be very good company indeed.
    You observe therefore, humble pie, Ruth Russell quite as naive in her own way as Jacko. I did my stint in the Dome; I went home and dressed up like a bottle of Mille Fiori d’Alpi and I walked fifty yards to the white marble gates of the villa, where Charles met me in someone’s Alfa Romeo and conveyed me the mile and a half up the drive. He had been two hours at the party already, and behaved like it.
    ‘And Johnson?’ I said, when I got him to stop making tensile tests all over my bodystocking.
    ‘Never mind Johnson,’ he said.
    ‘But I do mind Johnson,’ I said. ‘And I want to get to this party. And if you stop the car once again, I shall leave you. Did Maurice take to Johnson Johnson?’
    Charles made an expansive gesture, and then corrected the ensuing diagonal. ‘Your friendly neighbourhood portrait painter,’ he said, ‘has been given the key to the executive washroom. Maurice has always wanted to meet Johnson and Johnson has always wanted to meet Maurice. A series of portrait sittings has been arranged and will begin this very week, London papers please copy.’
    I stared at Charles, and made a number of mental apologies to Jacko. ‘Aha!’ I said.
    ‘The artist will, of course,’ said Charles, ‘be staying at the villa with Maurice.’
    ‘Oho,’ I said vaguely.
    ‘You thought,’ said Charles accusingly, ‘that he was going to paint you and me and the Pope in a triptych.’
    ‘No,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘No. But I know who’s going to go for him. Di and Timothy.’
    I was dead right at that. Timothy is tall and pink and helpful and Lithuanian, and anything as hand-knit as Johnson was bound to be whipped in and licensed. Timothy met us among the arum lilies at the top of the twin marble staircase and kissed us both while he unwrapped Charles from his ankle-length wolfskin. ‘Darlings,’ he said. ‘You have brought us a beautiful present. The Master is thrilled with him. Truly.’
    ‘Look at all the nice things you give us,’ I said. ‘You do such lovely parties, Timothy.’
    ‘Oh, well,’ he said pinkly, ‘except that you keep all the little treasures to yourself, don’t you? Hasn’t Charles any nice friends?’
    ‘Only you and me,’ I said grinning back at him. I said it before. I have never minded poufs. Charles was mine and I was his, and even people like Timothy knew it. Then we got to our food and awaited our summons to Maurice.
    The excuse is Maurice’s age; but Maurice always held audiences, even when he lived in the Penthouse Suite in the Dorchester. At the