‘What are you going to have? There’s no gin left. Sherry or rum?’

Olivia said: ‘Sherry. I can’t stand rum.’

I looked back more directly at Britton. He waved a stubby hand nervously in front of his face.

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

I shrugged, and straightened up to take two bottles over to the table. I said to Olivia: ‘Mind if it has a taint of gin?’

She shook her head. Handing me the glass to fill, her attention was directed sideways, towards Britton. She said: ‘You’ve come back an American all right. Nothing between a roaring, fighting drunk and evangelical teetotalism – the American way of life.’

Britton said quite seriously: ‘I’m not an evangelist. I just don’t like drinking.’ He watched with a thoughtful air as I poured myself a tot of rum. ‘I think alcohol … hinders.’

I drank my rum, relishing my disapproving audience. A voluptuous nose-thumbing. Looking over her own glass, Olivia asked: ‘Hinders what?’

‘Thought,’ Britton said. He hesitated before going on bravely: ‘And the development of the spirit.’