I had been so sure he wouldn’t know me. Stupid, arrogant mistake. ‘I expect it was when we were over in Europe and went to the Derby Eve dinner in London,’ the elderly woman said. ‘We sat at the head table.… We were guests of dear Ezra Gideon, poor man.’ I moved away sending wordless prayers of thankfulness to anyone out there listening. Filmer hadn’t even glanced at me, still less had known me. His head, when I’d finally looked at him, was turned away from me towards his companions, as was Daffodil’s also. Filmer’s own thoughts must anyway have been thrown in a tangle. He was himself directly responsible for Gideon’s suicide, and now he found himself sitting with Gideon’s friends. Whether or not he felt an ounce of embarrassment (probably not), it had to be enough to make him unaware of waiters. I fetched more glasses and dealt some of them to the Lorrimores who were an oasis of silence in the chattering mob and paid me absolutely no attention: and from then on I felt I had indeed chosen the right role and could sustain it indefinitely.
