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would not suit him, as he would not like others to think that he was one of those people who was emotionally tied to an institution of some sort–an institution that gave you stripes by which to remember it. He picked out a spotted tie and set it aside without looking at the price. You don’t have to ask the price any more, he told himself. It doesn’t matter. You can afford anything you want. The thought, which he had not entertained to any extent since his fortunes had changed, was an intoxicating one. What did it entail? If he went down to London, then he could walk into John Lobb’s shop in St James’s Street and have himself measured for a pair of bespoke shoes. Matthew had read about that recently in a lifestyle supplement, and had remembered the price. Two thousand four hundred pounds that would cost, and that was without the shoe trees. Shoe trees made by John Lobb would cost an additional three hundred pounds.
    Matthew reached for a box of lawn handkerchiefs. He would take that, as he did not have many handkerchiefs. And then he saw some socks, all wool with toes reinforced with a special fabric, described as revolutionary. Matthew pulled out three pairs of these and then a further two. One could never have enough socks, particularly in view of the tendency of socks to disappear in the laundry. No matter what precautions were taken, socks disappeared into a Bermuda Triangle for socks, a swirling vortex that swallowed one sock at a time, leaving its partner stranded.
    He was now assisted by a solicitous young man who had appeared from the back of the shop. Together, they chose four shirts, an expensive cashmere sweater which cost one hundred and twenty pounds, a pair of crushed-strawberry corduroy trousers, and a covert coat in oatmeal drill.
    “Very nice,” said the assistant. “You can wear that for shooting.”
    Matthew frowned. He did not go shooting, but then it occurred to him that he could if he wanted to. I can do anything, he thought, and smiled. He closed one eye and swung up an imaginary shotgun. “Bang,” he said.
    “Quite,” said the assistant. “Bang.”
    His purchases nestling in a copious carrier bag, Matthew left the outfitters and continued his walk along Queen Street. The spending of a large amount of money within a short space of time had been a strangely liberating experience. In a way which he found difficult to express, the whole process of shopping had made him feel better. The tie, the fine cashmere sweater, the covert coat–all of these had been added to him and had made him bigger. He felt more confident, more assured, and, critically, less vulnerable. Having money, he thought, means that the world cannot hurt you. You can lose things and just replace them. You can protect yourself against disappointment because you can get the best things available. Ordinary shoes might pinch; shoes made for you by John Lobb did not.
    He reached Dundas Street and turned down the hill. There, at the end of the street, beyond the roofs of Canonmills, was Fife–a dark green hillside, clouds, a silver strip of sea. Passing Glass and Thompson, he decided to call in for a slice of quiche and a glass of melon juice. Big Lou’s was just a little way down the street, but Big Lou did not make quiche and there was no melon juice to be had there.
    Matthew perched on a stool at one of the tables. There were a few other customers in at the time–a woman in a dark trouser suit, engrossed in a file of papers; a thin man paging through an old copy of a design magazine, an architect, as Matthew knew.
    He picked up a copy of a newspaper and turned the pages at random. Split trust victims seek compensation, a headline read. And then another: with-profits policies encounter painful shortfall. Matthew paused, his glass of melon juice half way to his lips.
    Outside, he did not have to wait long for a taxi, and he was soon outside the lawyers’ offices again, and then, within minutes, inside, seated opposite the