‘No, I will,’ said Brockett, collecting them again, ‘I’ll do the whole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people’s kitchens.’ He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood—the mood when his white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was too high and his movements too small for the size of his broad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to dread him in this mood; there was something almost aggressive about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing off like a child at a Christmas party. She said sharply: ‘If you’ll wait, I’ll ring for the maid.’ But Brockett had already invaded the kitchen. She followed, to find the cook looking offended. ‘I want lots and lots of dishes,’ he announced. Then unfortunately he happened to notice the parlourmaid’s washing, just back from the laundry. ‘Brockett, what on earth are you doing?’ He had put on the girl’s ornate frilled cap, and was busily tying on her small apron. He paused for a moment. ‘How do I look? What a perfect duck of an apron!’ The parlourmaid giggled and Stephen laughed. That was the worst of Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in spite of yourself—when you most disapproved you found yourself laughing. The food he had brought was the oddest assortment: lobster, caramels, pâté de foies gras, olives, a tin of rich-mixed biscuits and a Camembert cheese that was smelling loudly. There was also a bottle of Rose’s lime-juice and another of ready-made cocktails. He began to unpack the things one by one, clamouring for plates and entrée dishes. In the process he made a great mess on the table by upsetting most of the lobster salad. He swore roundly. ‘Damn the thing, it’s too utterly bloody! It’s ruined my gloves, and now look at the table!’ In grim silence the cook repaired the damage. This mishap appeared to have damped his ardour, for he sighed and removed his cap and apron. ‘Can anyone open this bottle of olives? And the cocktails? Here, Stephen, you can tackle the cheese; it seems rather shy, it won’t leave its kennel.’ In the end it was Stephen and the cook who must do all the work, while Brockett sat down on the floor and gave them ridiculous orders. 3 Brockett it was who ate most of the dinner, for Stephen was too over-tired to feel hungry; while Puddle, whose digestion was not what it had been, was forced to content herself with a cutlet. But Brockett ate largely, and as he did so he praised himself and his food between mouthfuls. ‘Clever of me to have discovered this pâté—I’m so sorry for the geese though, aren’t you, Stephen? The awful thing is that it’s simply delicious—I wish I knew the esoteric meaning of these mixed emotions!’ And he dug with a spoon at the side that appeared to contain the most truffles.