"Will you get me a taxi please, Scrubbings?" He barely turns to address his request to the porter.
"Certainly Sir Henry. Where will we be travelling to?"
"The Wallace Collection."
Ten minutes later Sir Henry Northrop alights in front of the museum and art gallery on Manchester Square. He has visited it often to admire its fine collections of French porcelain and its fabled display of armour and weapons. But today he has decided he will reacquaint himself with some of the Old Masters hanging in the Great Gallery. He ascends the long central staircase, walking through the furniture displays until he arrives at the huge richly-decorated picture gallery. There is Frans Hals' 'Laughing Cavalier', Caneletto's famous panorama of Venice, a small Rembrandt self-portrait and also those macabre Dutch School still lives of dead hares and pheasants.
Sir Henry is pleasantly surprised to find that the gallery is completely deserted, save for a dozing woman attendant, seated at the end beneath a Velasquez. He paces slowly along the displays, admiring the pictures in much the same way that he used to inspect his army regiment. He consults his watch - it is now 5.42pm - then settles down on a leather banquette to study the picture directly in front of him. It is not one he is familiar with. French school, probably mid-18th century, subdued colours, but with a composition that is not altogether to his liking. Better suited, he decides, for the lid of a box of chocolates. It depicts an attractive young woman in a pink crinoline, sitting on a swing in a sun-dappled arbour, with a young man lying on the grass admiring her. Sir Henry is about to arise and make his way to the exit when a female voice addresses him from behind.
"D'you like it? It's one of my favourite pictures in the whole gallery."
He turns to observe a smartly-dressed woman who, unnoticed, has seated herself at the other end of the bench and is gazing intently at the picture of the girl on the swing. Sir Henry coughs nervously. He certainly isn't in the habit of being addressed by strangers unannounced. "Not really my cup of tea, I'm afraid." He makes to leave.
Undeterred, the woman continues to enthuse. "I find it terribly erotic. Do you know the story behind the picture?"
"No, I can't say I do."
"Ah well, if you did, I dare say you'd give it a bit more respect. It's by Jean-Honore Fragonard. Painted around 1780, I believe. He went in for informal studies, when most of his contemporaries were doing big set-pieces of dynasties, all lined up under oak trees with their dogs in baronial parks. Well, it seems he was approached by the husband of the woman on the swing, who asked him to do her portrait as a surprise present. Fragonard agreed and visited his client, where he instantly fell in love with the wife."
Sir Henry discreetly consults his pocket watch and is alarmed to find that his homeward-bound train departs in less than 10 minutes. "Really?"
"So he made some informal sketches of her then worked on the picture in his studio. Tell me, how many figures can you see in the painting?"
"Two."
"No, there's three. There's the girl on the swing and the young man lying on the ground. But can you see the wizened old fellow in the shadows on the right, who's pushing the swing?"
"Oh yes." Sir Henry begins to take more interest.
"That's the young woman's cuckolded husband, and the young blade lying on the grass is Fragonard! What's more," the woman now slides along the banquette until she is almost touching Sir Henry. "he's positioned himself so he can look directly up her skirts!"
"By jove, you're right!"
"Wait, it gets better. See how the girl has kicked off one of her shoes with excitement? She's clearly showing off to her lover, isn't she? Because, and of course this is only supposition, she's not wearing any knickers!"
"No knickers?"
"Like the can-can dancers in the Folies Bergerre. Did you know some of them used to wear split-crotch panties to excite their gentlemen admirers sitting in the front row?"
"Can't say I did."
The two museum visitors turn to face each other for the first time. Sir Henry Northrop notices that the stranger, though past the last flushes of youth, is extremely attractive. She wears a pale blue ensemble of blouse and skirt, a pearl necklace, pear ear studs and dark blue leather high heel shoes. An expensive blue leather clutch bag lies at her side. At close quarters, her perfume is seductively overpowering. For her part, the woman decides that Sir Henry is certainly a true aristocrat: patricial in bearing, well turned out, well spoken, trim of physique, and in all probability extremely rich.
"It's been fascinating talking to you," he consults his watch again.
"Do you live in London?"
"No, Buckinghamshire. We have a small place outside Andover. I was supposed to get the 6.50 train back, but that's gone now. Next one's not til 8."
"Well look, the museum's due to close shortly. I live just round the corner; why not come back to my place for a glass of wine and some nibbles? By the way, my name's Marjorie, Marjorie Bailey."
"Pleased to meet you. Henry Northrop." Sir Henry graciously accepts the invitation and they leave the picture gallery together just as the sleeping lady attendant rouses herself to go home. As the descend the Wallace Collection's staircase, Sir Henry is pleasantly surprised that Marjorie takes his arm affectionately.
The woman's flat is located on the first floor of a large Victorian mansion block. The interior is tastefully decorated, neat and prim like its owner. She ushers her visitor into the living room, then goes to the kitchen to get the wine. She returns, bearing a silver tray carrying a bottle of vintage Chablis, two crystal-stemmed glasses and a silver saucer of cashew nuts. Sir Henry is standing in front of her mahogany bookcase.
"I say, you've got some fine books here!"
"Thank you. There what I call my 'pension pot'; rare first editions I picked up when I was in business.