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two Picassos, a number of abstracts Yapp couldn’t put a name to and finally, most astonishingly of all, a Warhol. But before he could convert his surprise into disgust at this financial exploitation of the art world, Walden Yapp’s emotions were sent reeling again. Through a side door beyond the fireplace there came the sound of a querulous voice, a pair of bedroom slippers and the chromium spokes of a wheelchair.
    ‘Ah my dear fellow, how good of you to come all this way,’ said Lord Petrefact, lending even less enchantment to Yapp’s view than the abstract
Nude In Pieces
by Jaroslav Somebody he had been studying, by attempting to smile. To a man of greater experience of reality that smile would have come as a terrible augury: to Walden Yapp’s deep commitment to compassion and concern it heralded a courageous attempt to ignore physical suffering. From one moment to the next Lord Petrefact was transformed from a capitalist bloodsucker to a Senior Citizen with a disability problem.
    ‘Not at all,’ he muttered, desperately trying to sort out the tangle of conflicting emotions to which Lord Petrefact’s sorry appearance had subjected him; and withoutquite realizing what he was doing he was shaking the limp hand of one of Britain’s wealthiest and, in his previous opinion, most ruthless exploiters of the working man. The next moment he was sitting on the sofa with a whisky and soda while the old man prattled on about how rewarding it must be to give one’s all to young people in a world which sorely lacked men of Professor Yapp’s dedication.
    ‘I would hardly say that,’ he demurred. ‘One does one’s best of course but our students are not of the highest calibre.’
    ‘All the more reason why they should have the best teaching,’ said Lord Petrefact, clutching a glass of milk with one hand while wiping an eye with a handkerchief in the other the better to study this gaunt young man who represented in his view the most dangerous species of hypocritical ideologue in the modern world. If Yapp had his preconceived notions of capitalists, Lord Petrefact’s prejudices were as extreme about socialists, and Yapp’s reputation had led him to expect something more formidable. For a moment his resolution faltered. It was hardly worthwhile setting on a man who looked like a cross between an inexperienced social worker and a curate to make life a misery for the family. The sods would eat him alive. But then again, Yapp’s appearance might be deceptive. His arbitration decisions, particularly his ninety per cent pay rise for cloakroom attendants and urinal maintenance personnel, had been so evidently motivated by political prejudices, while the paritypayments with hospital consultants he had claimed for road-sweepers had been so monstrous, that they left no doubt that Yapp, whatever he might appear, was a very considerable subversive force. Lord Petrefact made these assessments while continuing to sip his milk and discuss the need for greater training opportunities for young people with a muted enthusiasm tinged with a melancholy he didn’t feel.
    In the corner, uncomfortably conscious of his Harris tweed jacket, Croxley listened and watched. He had seen Lord Petrefact in this role of philanthropic invalid before and it had inevitably led to extremely nasty consequences. In fact, by the time he had given Walden Yapp a second whisky and had seen him swallow it as the contract butler announced that dinner was served, he was beginning to take pity on the poor fool. Against such sympathy he had to remind himself that Yapp couldn’t be quite the imbecile he appeared to have risen so high in the academic world and Croxley, who had been born and raised before the introduction of free university education, begrudged Yapp his opportunities and success.
    At least Croxley had been able to mitigate the more indigestive consequences of the meal. The turtle soup had come from a tin and he had made certain that the game pie was as