Turning round to Sir Christopher at his writing-table, he had said, as if visited by a miraculous apparition, ‘I didn’t know this book on early Florentine architecture was inscribed to you by the author. Goodness, you hadn’t yet turned fourteen that summer when he gave it you. Still thirteen, you were.’
‘I quite forgot about that. Do give it one.’ Sir Christopher extended his hand.
‘Who exactly was Edgar W. Anthony?’ John asked, intentionally suppressing the h in imitation of Sir Christopher’s usual pronunciation of the Christian name – one of his own many middle names.
‘It’s pronounced “Anth-ǝ-ny”. I quite clearly remember him correcting one as a boy.’
‘Oh,’ John whispered apologetically, as he fell into a brown study. He felt suddenly besieged by the gaping disparity between the thir
