A sort of icy anger slips down Anthony’s spine at Gabriel’s returning volley. He narrows his eyes slightly and sips his drink. Anthony Blunt does not like to be made to feel like he owes something to other people: certainly not time, or attention, or what one might call emotional availability. He will concede that he has been impolite, but that is not a reflection of what they think of one another, for goodness sake.

That anger, unfair as it may be, helps him keep his walls in place, as much as he longs for closeness. “And where is it that you think things stand?” he asks with the same unerring mildness.