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knowledge,” Gillian said. “It’s a sort of instinct, and as Jason said, he probably just enjoys it—hugs it to himself, makes good stories of it after we’re gone. He is unutterably loathsome, but he can hardly expect to be able to use things which none of us is trying to hide.”
    But Clarissa was far from being placated. “I think something should be done. You, Jason—you’re the obvious one to do it. You could go direct to the festival committee. It’s your first year here—you don’t remember how wonderful it was at the Saracen in previous years. If something’s not done quickly, the festival will lose all its spirit, all its old character. That man’s got to go .”
    Jason took that point, at least, seriously. “I think, actually, you may be right. But the time to do something is not now. All we would achieve would be bad blood, recrimination, frustration. Not good for the show, for any of the shows. What might work is a collective letter, after thisfestival is over, from all the artists staying or working at the Saracen—a letter sent both to the festival committee and to the hotel chain that appointed him. Though what on earth possessed them to appoint him in the first place I can’t imagine.”
    â€œMight one suggest blackmail?” said Clarissa sweetly.
    â€œThat’s a point.” Jason was thoughtful. “If so, we’ve really got a problem on our hands. . . . Come on, boys and girls. Back to the grindstone. All onstage. We’ve really got to lick the brothel scene into shape.”
    Gillian had had to revise her opinion of Jason Thark as director somewhat. There were large areas of the play where he did, in everyone’s opinion, excellent things. He worked tirelessly with Carston Galloway on the part of Ralph Greatheart, and together they created a rounded, human, and funny character from the bare bones of the script. He coaxed from Constance Geary, whose technique had been formed in proscenium-arch theaters, a performance that exploited all the potential of the apron stage. All the swirling crowd scenes, including the Deptford brothel one, went with great brio. The chaste apprentice as arch-gay seemed to Gillian funny but misconceived, and with Clarissa he could do nothing—but Melinda Purefoy was never going to be much of a part in anybody’s hands. But all in all she had no doubt he was going to put together a real performance and probably have a critical success.
    Of Jason as director, then, her estimate had risen. On Jason as a person she felt she could reserve judgment. On Jason’s intelligence generally, her opinion took a nosedive one evening. (She was sitting with Peter, Constance, and him at a table for four and telling them how much better the food at the Saracen used to be.) Suddenly Jason came up with one of his “ideas.”
    â€œI say, wouldn’t it be effective if Singh could introduce each act with a few Elizabethan part songs?”
    â€œWith what ?”
    â€œElizabethan part songs. I’ll suggest it to Brad.”
    â€œI didn’t know Singh was a ventriloquist,” said Gillian. “I suggest you say Elizabethan lute songs.”
    â€œThat sort of thing,” said Jason blithely. “Something suitably bawdy could go down well.”
    Unfortunately the idea came to nothing. Singh had such songs in his repertoire and had performed them in Balliol College Hall and to other select musical societies. But on the first night of The Chaste Apprentice he would be performing Handel arias in an operatic concert in Town Hall.
    â€œThe opening concert of the festival,” said Bradford Mallory. “A bit of a popular mishmash, to get audiences, but I’ve persuaded some of the London critics along to hear Singh. I am not having the dear boy dashing from one end of town to the other to fit you in. But he could sing on the other nights.”
    But Jason