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when I was young. They too were Jewish: they were not, and never had been, anything like so plutocratic as Azik had become. And yet, though they were slightly more sceptical about politics than their Gentile counterparts, their instincts were the same. After generations in England, they thought and spoke like members of the English haute bourgeoisie , like distinctly grander and better-connected Forsytes. If, when I first knew them, anyone had made contributions such as Azik’s to the wrong party, some of the older members might have been capable of saying (though I didn’t remember hearing the phrase in the March houses) that he was a traitor to his class.
    Nevertheless, after dinner, Azik did recall to me one of those patriarchs, my favourite one. We were sitting in the drawing-room, brandy going round. It was quite early, not long after ten, but Pat had begun to fuss ostentatiously over his wife. Twice he asked her, wasn’t it time for him to take her home? Coolly, demurely, she said that she was perfectly well.
    ‘Of course she is,’ said Margaret. ‘This isn’t an illness, don’t you realise that?’
    ‘If it is,’ said Rosalind, ‘it’s a very pleasant one.’
    There was an unexpected freemasonry. Margaret and Rosalind agreed that, when they were carrying their children, they had never felt better in their lives. They also agreed that they wished they could have had some more. Azik gave them a condescending hyper-masculine smile, as though women were women, as though (he must have known when he listened to his wife’s confidences, that she and Margaret had less in common even than he and I, and liked each other a great deal less) he wasn’t above remarking that they were sisters under the skin.
    ‘That’s all very well,’ he projected himself again. ‘But I say young Pat’s right. He’s got to be careful.’ He gave his wife a beaming glance. ‘You don’t have your first grandchild every day. He’s got to be careful. As far as that goes, I must say, I’m not happy that they’re being careful enough. I don’t like the sound of that doctor of theirs. They ought to have the best man in London–’
    Azik had been studying the Medical Directory , in search of their doctor’s qualifications, and was deeply suspicious as a result. It was then that I had a memory of old Mr March, Charles March’s father, the patriarch whom we used to know as Mr L, going through the same drill. When his daughter was expecting a baby, or his relatives were ill, or even their friends, Mr March would carry out sombre researches into doctors’ careers, and emerge, with indignation, prophecies of disaster and fugues of total recall, expressing his disapprobation and contempt for what he called practitioners , and above all for the particular practitioner in charge of the case.
    Even Azik couldn’t let himself go in his freedom so totally as Mr L. Yet for an instant the images got superposed, the two of them, abundant, paternal, unrestrained, acting as they felt disposed to act.
    With a good grace, Muriel got ready to go. Her step was still elegant and upright: as she said goodbye, she gave Margaret a smile which was secretive, lively, amused. Gallantly, like someone who would be glad to execute an imitation of Sir Walter Raleigh but hadn’t the excuse, Pat draped a cape over her shoulders.
    When they had left and we heard Pat drive the car off down below, Azik had a word to say about their living arrangements, the Chelsea flat, paid for out of Muriel’s money, for she kept them both. For once Azik had no immediate suggestions for improvement. Then, having disposed of the topic of his stepdaughter, he introduced another one, like a child saving the jam to the last, that of his own son. This was the only child Azik and Rosalind had between them, born when she was over forty. One never met Azik without, in the end, the conversation coming round to David, who had already been the subterranean cause of Azik’s sympathy