Baummüller and Richard watching her, Maria raised the glass to her lips, carefully, cautiously sipping. If one looked closely — and they did — one could see minute traces of condensation on the rim; her lips shook.

“I must say,” said Baummüller, leaning back, “when the term began, I had never thought to be sitting at the dinner table of Sebastian Beetjes, author of de duivelwals; never in a thousand years.”

If one looked closely — and they did — one could see minute traces of condensation on the rim; her lips shook.

“It just goes to show,” said Sebastian tersely.

“I’ve read three novels this week,” said Maria, “and all of them have been by you!”

“Oh, you poor girl. You must need something stronger,” the author said, raising the wine bottle. “Anyway forget that,” he said over the pouring, “What I’ve been reading are the works of the marvellous young writer here — Master Rich.”

Rich, his head dozily back, said nothing at all, though one could see tiny blotches of red spreading over his cheeks.

“Really?” said Baummüller, “Really worth reading?”

“They come highly recommended. Listen guys, I’ll tell you what I told Rich: Er schuilt een echte poëet in hem.”

“He’s a voice for the future?”

“Indubitably,” said Sebastian, and took a bread roll.

Maria, just a little curiosity visible in her now, said, “And which of his poems do you consider the best?”

“Oh, that would have to be the ‘Self-Portrait at 20’; yes, I like that one very much. How does it go? — Well, perhaps I should let the jonge meester do the honours,” and he bit.

Rich paused, six eyes looking at him, two of them having been there already. “I’m — I’m not sure I know it.”

“Doch,” said Maria, “I know you can do it.”

He paused, and half-laughed, “But it’s — I don’t — ” and then, suddenly, “Self portrait at twenty,” he began.

The air settled, the world unperturbed as ever by incantation; at length, Maria said “Beautiful.”

“Sehr schön,” said Karl.

“I tell you he’s the cat’s pyjamas! The tin whistle of childhood! Peep! Peep! — you can’t teach that.”

“No,” said Baummüller. “You can’t. High praise for you tonight young man, indeed!”

Maria looked over. “Rich?”

He accepted their attention, their silently ebbed waves of approval, their warm smiles, in vague, detached manner: a perfect simulation of a poet, playing a blinder and not even sensible to the fact, thought Sebastian. Before his pupil got in the way of things, Sebastian asked “Dessert wine?” and, to avoid over-scrutiny of what had happened, moved proceedings on.