“I get lonely,” she said in her strange, aggressive way. “That’s why I come on these twitching trips. You don’t know how lonely it is if you’re a woman birdwatcher. I’m not really interested in the rarities. Only in ringing.”

Molly was concentrating on her drawing, but was very interested.

“Do you know Rob well?” She wanted to know exactly how things were between Tina and Rob.

“I’ve known him for a long time,” Tina said, “but he’s never been into ringing.” And with that statement he was dismissed. “Tom French and I had the same trainer, and Rob went to school with Tom.”

“Was Tom your friend?”

Tina thought. At least Molly, waiting for a reply, presumed that she was thinking.

“I suppose he was a friend,” she said at last. “ He taught me a lot about birds. But he gave up ringing too.”

She lay back in the sun, feeling with pleasure the heat on her neck and bare arms. She was watching the fulmars and drowsing, then became suddenly and momentarily irritated because not one of them had a ring on its leg. The irritation passed but she could not return to the earlier state of relaxation. She got up and walked back along the path, enjoying the vigorous movement and the wind from the sea. Rob saw her coming, a straight, fierce figure on the horizon, and waved. He was in the shadow of the graveyard and it took a while for her eyes to adjust to it. The greenish warbler was still there, in a clump of tamarisk, about fifty feet away from the people. Rob was leaning against the wall and quite unnecessarily pointing out the bird to a group of birdwatchers. She could hear him hinting loudly that if George went to fetch Molly they could get to the pub in the village before closing time. Then, she thought partly for her benefit, he gave an exaggerated mime of disbelief as a tall dark man in his early thirties approached them.

“Peter Littleton,” he said in a tone of stage surprise. “I never thought to see you on the mainland again. What has happened to the bulb trade, and where is the delectable Barbara?”

Tina had reached them by now, and Rob bowed towards her and towards the newcomer in a charade of formal introduction.

“This,” he said, “is Peter, the friend who deserted me for another. He had the courage, the audacity, the common sense to marry the girl we all adored.” He was talking very loudly and the group of bird watchers were quickly becoming an audience. “Everyone who stayed on St. Agnes dreamt of the delectable Barbara, barmaid and beauty, tantalizing temptress of the Tavern’s public bar. Only Barbara relieved the tedium of birdless, beerless afternoons, Barbara, daughter of the largest landowner on Scilly, Barbara…”

The man interrupted. “Shut up,” he said tightly. “Have you got a car?”

“No, but George here has.”

“Then get him to drive me to the pub.”