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‘Blue Boy’; the Albany, New York, version of an Arabian prayer rug; the modernistic japanned shadow-box bearing an unsplendid specimen of Euphorbia splendens , or crown of thorns, and another and nameless succulent, both somehow achieving sadness without (like some sad house plants) bravery; and in the corner, on a massively ugly pedestal of some quasi-mahogany, the marble head of a laughing girl of extraordinary beauty. ‘This place,’ said Percival York, ‘always reminds me of a novel by Dickens.’
    Emily had seated herself straitly in a straight-backed chair, as if to admonish his sprawl, but at Percival’s growl she inclined her body forward, ever ready to encourage the wastrel in cultural conversation.
    â€˜Oh, really? That’s very interesting, Percival. Which Dickens novel does it remind you of?’
    â€˜ The Old Curiosity Shop ,’ said Percival, and the cultural conversation expired without a struggle. ‘I wish we’d have these bloody blood-is-thicker-than-water sessions somewhere else, the way we used to.’
    â€˜You know perfectly well how confused poor Myra gets if she has to go out,’ said Emily coldly.
    â€˜I know how confused poor Myra gets when she doesn’t go out. At my place, now,’ Percival added, apparently more to be offensive than to express an immediate need, ‘we could at least have a drink.’
    Emily set herself for the argument she knew was futile. ‘Unless my nose deceives me,’ she began. But then she shrugged. There would be other opportunities. ‘Here’s Myra.’
    â€˜Who’s going to be here?’ It came as a cooing, rather than speech. On Ann Drew’s arm, Myra York had sidled in and was looking tremulously about with soft-focused eyes.
    â€˜It’s all right, Myra dear,’ said Emily crisply, reciting the ritual assurance. ‘Just the four of us. And Ann, of course, and that nice young Mr. Archer.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, Myra,’ Percival drawled, ‘the ol’ beau hasn’t shown his face yet.’
    Myra York blanched. Ann Drew frowned. Emily barked his name. Percival scowled at them all and slumped further, sardonically watching Myra expel two large matched tears. ‘I really,’ she cooed, ‘don’t know what you mean.’
    â€˜There, now,’ said Ann Drew, dabbing at her with a handkerchief; and Emily straightened up to a little more than straight, a cobra-like movement, and hissed, ‘Percival, you are a —’
    â€˜Su-u-ure I am,’ Percival York drawled, looking at last quite pleased, as if he had accomplished something and was rather proud of it.
    The doorbell rang again, and Myra York uttered a little shriek and sprang upright. Ann Drew quickly put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right ,’ she breathed, ‘it’s all right.’
    â€˜It’s just Robert,’ said Emily, ‘and I suppose Mr. Archer.’ She glanced at Ann Drew, all occupied with Myra, distraught; Percival supine; and she visibly computed that preoccupation plus insolent non-co-operation equaled another trip to the door for Emily. She rose and went out.
    â€˜It’s just Robert,’ Ann echoed to Myra’s papery ear, ‘and I suppose Mr. Archer.’ She half pressed, half lowered Myra York back into her place on the divan.
    â€˜It’s just Robert,’ mocked Percival, ‘fresh from his 7:31 P . M . beauty nap, a lost cause if ever I saw one. Right, Annie?’
    â€˜I’d like you to call me Miss Drew, please,’ said Ann.
    â€˜Okay, Annie, anything you say. Now watch,’ he said leering at her. ‘Robert’ll walk in, give you a hello, and call the roll of us . Then he’ll sit down and cough twice. Twice, mind you.’ He rocked back until his nape thumped the back of the love seat, to stare again at the place where the wall met the ceiling.
    â€˜What is it,