Even what used to be regarded as le Carré’s enduring strength — his ability to anatomise the British Establishment in unsparing detail — does not seem as impressive now as it did 20 years ago. Those alumni of minor public schools, with their quaint slang and their down-at-heel clothes, have a way of fading into each other, until you forget which is which.

Even Salvo, the Irish-Congolese hero of The Mission Song, the latest le Carré, has uncanny echoes of George Smiley, with his diffidence and his unfaithful wife.

Too many of the protagonists of the novels are stock characters, not full-blown portraits. Beneath the brilliantly observed surfaces, there is not much there, nothing to engage the reader at an emotional level.

In many respects, John le Carré is one of the most admirable English writers of the postwar period. He is a hard worker, a perfectionist, a man who has spent years honing his craft, nagging away obsessively at the same themes. Not for him the flummery of literary prizes, knighthoods, the primrose path to celebrity. He is a credit to his profession, as he would be a credit to any profession.

But, when push comes to shove, how many of his novels will be read and admired 50 years from now? Two or three, at best. The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, certainly. The autobiographical A Perfect Spy. Tinker Tailor, at a pinch. Many of the others, particularly the later ones, will seem ponderous, even clumsy.