Not long afterwards, I was not surprised to hear that Samuel Marcus had been elected a member of the Athenaeum, honoris causa; but I was surprised by my sentiment of betrayal when he resigned from the Stanhope. Having imagined myself recruited to a rare fraternity, I realised that Sammy had never regarded North Audley Street as more than a way station. His departure left me marooned in a membership which I should never have sought for myself.

The unofficial president of the Stanhope bridge room was Fred Kleinman. Although he retained vestiges of the accent with which he had fled Germany in 1936, Fred had acquired the handsome manners and lofty style of an English gentleman: Huntsman suits, handmade Lobb shoes, Harvie and Hudson double-cuffed shirts. Who would guess that, at the outbreak of war, he had been interned on the Isle of Man along with other "enemy aliens"? Such was his charm and his sportsmanship that he was quickly recruited to the bridge table by the commandant of the camp. Once released, he  became executive director of a soon successful publishing house. He could remain on good terms with even the most ingenious of Hungarians. Fred was not a good bridge-player, but a cheerful partner: he never remarked your mistakes and presumed you to be amused by his.

The same was not true of Herbert Schosch.  A short man with an upturned equestrian moustache and a sallow complexion, he usually wore a mustard-coloured suit, a brownish shirt and a blue, striped tie that might have been regimental. His accent was less pronounced than Fred Kleinman's but more obstreperous. At the bridge-table, he aped the conduct of the character whom the great Skid Simon immortalised, in Why You Lose at Bridge, as "Mr Smug": an aggressively bad player who never doubted that he was better than anyone else. I had the misfortune of being Herbert's partner while he bid to four spades against opponents who had already announced powerful hands. When doubled, Herbert contrived—by playing the hand even more ineptly than he had bid it—to go eight down, vulnerable.

As the penalty was being computed, I permitted myself to say, "Just as well I didn't redouble."

Our opponents smiled, but Herbert did not.  "You misled me," he said.

"I passed throughout the auction," I said.

"By the eshpeed of your passing." He had a habit, which he told us came from his years as an engineering consultant in the Indian sub-continent, of making his esses into eshes.

Bridge-players rarely improve. Study and aptitude may turn a beginner into a better and sometimes into a very good player, but mediocre players flaunt their complacency by making the same errors over and over again, often after protracted thought. Herbert was prompt to reproach his partners (and instruct his opponents) but brooked no criticism from, in particular, Bernard Pinto, who had played for England, albeit in tournaments for which top players were unavailable.

Bernard was the captain and the sole selector of the club team for whatever duplicate competitions the Stanhope dared to enter. After I had been a member for several years, he asked me if I would care to partner him in a match against Hurlingham. Having been an addict during the 1960s, I had promised myself never again to play "serious" bridge, but I agreed to be seduced by a pundit. Athough Bernard never uttered a word of praise, my performance must have passed muster: I became his first choice as partner.