Bentley tyres swished up the drive of a medieval castle in Middle England. The chairmen of 50 large private businesses were to debate politics among the armour and stags’ heads. I earwigged, feeling like a gatecrasher at the neighbourhood branch of the Bilderberg group. Surely the mood would be triumphal. The Tories, the hereditary party of business, were, according to pollsters, rolling unstoppably towards power. Bolly and bonuses all round.

But the mood within the great hall was subdued. The death mask of Cromwell, that enemy of excess, frowned disapprovingly from the wall. “The danger is that the Tories will cut too deep, too fast,” worried an insurance boss, attacking his hors d’oeuvre. “The shadow front bench has an unfinished look,” groused a biotech executive over the main course. “Mandelson for Tory prime minister,” proposed the chair of a fast food chain, slowly demolishing his dessert. It was unclear whether he was joking.