Cynthia asked: ‘Isn’t that a Van Eyck on the wall over there?’

The smile touched his lips. ‘If one looks at it from such a distance, yes. If one stands close and examines it by means of a magnifying glass, it will prove to be a clever reproduction. In the Alte Pinakothek at Munich one may see the genuine canvas, and if it were for sale one would require – let me see – twenty thousand pounds to buy it. The painting which hangs on my wall I bought for less than ten pounds in Vienna.’

‘But you did choose it.’

Albrecht shrugged. ‘I like it. It is a pleasant scene. Perhaps it is also a work of art. I am curious to see Henry’s cave paintings. It does not seem to me that I have any responsibility towards them.’

‘I should finish what I need to do on them this year,’ Henry said. ‘Do you have any objection to my writing them up after that? I don’t think they are particularly important as cave paintings – nothing like Altimira or the other major sites – but they may bring a few people along.’

‘It will give Adolf, my steward, something on which to exercise his worries. As I have told you, I am not here much.’

Cynthia stretched back into the sensuously enclosing chair in which she sat. It was of modern design, shaped something like a large shell, but upholstered in crimson plush.

‘Do you have business in Vienna, Albrecht?’

He stared at her. ‘My business is pleasure. Vienna is a good place to pursue it. But I go elsewhere. I have recently returned from Italy.’

She asked him: ‘How does one measure success in that kind of business?’

‘As in others – by the increase in expertness and the decrease in satisfaction. And, of course, by the growing dread of retirement.’