‘There are some letters from Mark here. Irene was always very fond of him. Though when he was middle-aged he became one of those grandees who prefer the company of other grandees.’
‘He was nice to me. I went to stay with them when they lived in Paris, d’you remember? He was pretty old, of course, and rather cool, one felt one was being examined. But one Saturday afternoon he said to me – I don’t know why – “Pandora, come and see a bit of old Paris with me, a few special things.” And off we went, just him and me. I was seventeen, I suppose, just a schoolgirl, but he was so kind and enthusiastic, and we walked for miles and stopped in little cafés and he showed me the Left Bank and the Marais, it was all fascinating, and I felt quite at ease with him. It was as though he’d taken off an uncomfortable mask and was feeling much better. And then that evening there was a dinner party and the mask was on again. But he was always nice to me after that.’
‘Funny old Mark.’
‘Do you think he was happy, Mark? When he was old, I mean?’
‘Happy? Oh, I don’t know about that. What does it mean, to be happy?’