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down on us? A lazy sureness of being secure, till almost the last minute, and then panic so late it was virtually over as soon it was begun. The prince is coming, the prince is coming, the prince is retreating.’
    ‘Ah. Well, here it was long and slow, for the lag of the news kept us in suspense for weeks. Weeks of furious doubt if the next sail into the harbour wouldn’t be a frigate bearing tyranny on its quarterdeck, and orders for us all to turn Papist on the instant – those are words I heard spoken in this room – and nothing to do about it, Europe’s afterthought that we are, politically speaking, but to abide the issue of the quarrel, while snarling (or worse) at any soul within hand’s reach who might be suspected of serving King Louis, from the French cut of their coat. So you see how the appetite would arise for a wholesome parade of savages, lightly blood-dabbled. Besides, we have no theatre.’
    ‘Do you not?’
    ‘No,’ said Septimus. ‘Not since before my time, at any rate.’ His foot had begun to tap again, steadily.
    ‘But— Wait a minute,’ said Smith, rummaging under the coffee-pot for the news-sheets. ‘Oh yes – what about the celebrated Mrs Tomlinson, and her rendition of the classics?’
    ‘That will be an upstairs room over a tavern, and Terpie dressed up as Britannia. Terpie keeps the lamp of culture lit, but her helmet will be gilded cardboard, and every time she misremembers a line, she’ll give a flash of thigh.’
    ‘You don’t approve? Peg Woffington does that every time she takes a breeches role.’
    ‘Mrs Woffington gives us the thighs as well as the tragedy. I’m afraid with Terpie it’s the thighs instead of . It doesn’t take much to be celebrated here. – I saw her in The Recruiting Officer , you know – Peg Woffington. She was marvellous.’
    ‘Still is. Do you know she’s broken with Garrick?’
    ‘No! When?’
    ‘Two years ago.’
    ‘Oh, you brute,’ said Septimus. ‘You absolute brute. Really?’
    ‘Yes. How long have you been here?’
    ‘Four years,’ said Septimus. His brows steepled, and a fine upright wrinkle appeared between them: as eloquent a mark of passion, on a face so Toby-jug-like, so china-smooth, as if he were rolling on the floor tearing at his garments, and raving in wild anguish at his exile. The tapping foot accelerated. Smith took pity on him.
    ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘The news of the Town: —— has ceased to announce his retirement, and actually retired. The bon ton have flocked to ——, but —— has closed after six performances for want of backers. The fashion for —— has all gone out, but new in the firmament shine —— and ——. Mr —— is suspected oftaking guineas to allow the Marquess of ——’s tragedy onto the boards. The new man in comedy is one Mr ——. There: is that better?’
    ‘No. Now I only feel more sensibly the miles of water in between.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Smith. He smiled. ‘Well, maybe there’s my opportunity. I should use my famous riches to build you a theatre. Or an opera-house. Turn impresario. What do you think? Give me an orchestra pit and a red velvet curtain, and I shall make you feel you’re in the arms of Aunt England again.’
    Septimus narrowed his eyes. The foot stopped tapping. Smith, feeling himself looked at closely, and of a sudden in no friendly spirit, found that he had fallen into a close mimickry of Septimus’ posture at table, from the folded fingers to the tilted head; which mirror-work, executed in flesh and blood, Septimus perhaps took to be mocking, judging by the pursed distaste of the Secretary’s lips.
    ‘Heavens,’ he said slowly. ‘What a lot of different cants you do know, Mr Smith. But that is too blatant to be pleasing, I think. Too gross a tease. And though I may have been out of the arms of Aunt England, as you say, for a dreadful long time, I think I can still tell when I am talking to a little bold face, and when I am not, thank