Michael was sitting up in bed surrounded by comics. ‘Why are you going out when you only just got home?’ He sounded deliberately aggrieved. ‘Because I feel like it,’ she said, grinning in answer to his tone. He gave a conscious smile, then frowned, and said in an injured voice: ‘It isn’t fair.’ ‘But you’ll be asleep in an hour — I hope.’ ‘Is Julia going to read to me?’ ‘But I’ve already read to you for hours. Besides, it’s a school-day tomorrow, and you’ve got to go to sleep.’ ‘But when you’ve gone I expect I’ll talk her into it.’ ‘You’d better not tell me about it then, because I’ll be cross.’ He sauced her with his eyes; sitting up broad, solid, pink-cheeked; very sure of himself and his world in this house. ‘Why haven’t you put on the dress you said you were going to wear?’ ‘I’ve decided to wear this instead.’ ‘Women,’ said the nine-year-old, in a lordly way. ‘Women and their dresses.’ ‘Well, good night,’ she said, holding her lips for a moment against the smooth warm cheek; sniffing with pleasure at the fresh soap smell of his hair. She went downstairs, and found Julia in her bath. She shouted: ‘I’m off!’ and Julia shouted back: ‘You’d better get home early, you didn’t get any sleep last night.’

In the restaurant Cy Maitland was waiting for her. He looked fresh and vital. His clear blue eyes were undimmed by sleeplessness; and Ella said, sliding into the seat beside him and feeling suddenly fatigued: ‘Aren’t you sleepy at all?’ He said, at once triumphant: ‘I never sleep more than three or four hours a night.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I’ll never get where I want if I waste time sleeping.’ ‘You tell me about you,’ said Ella, ‘and then I’ll tell you about me.’ ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine. To tell you the truth, you are an enigma to me, so you’ll have to do a lot of talking.’ But now the waiters were ostensibly at their service, and Cy Maitland ordered ‘the biggest steak they had in the place’ and coca-cola, no potatoes because he had to lose a stone in weight, and tomato sauce. ‘Don’t you ever drink alcohol?’ ‘Never, only fruit juice.’ ‘Well, I’m afraid you are going to have to order me wine.’ ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said; and instructed the wine waiter to bring a bottle of ‘the best he had’. The waiters having departed, Cy Maitland said, relishing it: ‘In Paris the garcongs go out of their way to let you know you’re a hick; but here I see they just let you know it, without trying.’ ‘And are you a hick?’ ‘Sure, sure,’ he said, his batteries of fine teeth gleaming. ‘Well now it’s time for the story of your life.’ It took them to the end of the meal — over, as far as Cy was concerned, in ten minutes. But he waited agreeably enough for her, answering her questions. He had been born a poor boy. But he had also been born with brains and had used them. Scholarships and grants had taken him where he wanted to be — a brain surgeon, on his way up, married well with five children, a position and a great future, even if he said it himself. ‘And what does a poor boy mean in America?’ ‘My pop was selling ladies’ hose all his life and he still is. I’m not saying anyone ever went hungry, but there aren’t any brain surgeons anywhere in our family, you can bet your life.’ His boasting was so simple, so natural to him; that it was not boasting. And his vitality was beginning to infect Ella. She had forgotten she was tired.