‘My little girl mustn’t let her nerves run away with her,’ said Mrs Dean bracingly. ‘Who could possibly want to murder you, my pet?’

A glance at Stephen’s face might have provided her with a possible answer, but happily she did not look in his direction.

Paula, somewhat unexpectedly, said: ‘I wonder if there is a way into Uncle’s room which we don’t know about? Is there, Joe?’

‘My dear, don’t ask me!’ said Joseph, laughing at her. ‘You know your old uncle has no taste for antiques! For all I know, the house may be riddled with secret passages, and priest-holes, and hidden doors! Or isn’t it the right period for those delightfully romantic things? Stephen, you’re a bit of an archaeologist! – set your sister’s mind at rest!’

Stephen cast him a smouldering look. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said shortly.

‘Oh yes, you love to hide your light under a bushel!’ Joseph chaffed him. ‘Trying to make us believe you’re an ignoramus! But he’s no such thing, Mrs Dean, I assure you! In fact – but don’t say I told you so! – he’s a very clever fellow!’

This piece of facetiousness made Stephen scowl more threateningly than ever, and inspired Mottisfont to say in a meaning tone: ‘I’m sure if there is a secret way into Nat’s room, Stephen would know of it.’

‘I don’t know of it,’ Stephen replied.

Joseph’s arch smile vanished. ‘What do you mean by that, Edgar?’

Mottisfont raised his brows. ‘Merely that it’s common knowledge that Stephen shared Nat’s love for the house. I naturally thought he must know its secrets, if there are any. You’re very touchy, Joe!’

‘I don’t care for that kind of edged remark,’ Joseph said. ‘I know this is a period of great strain, Edgar, but we all feel it, some of us perhaps more than you. The least we can do is to refrain from saying malicious things about each other!’

‘I wish you’d rid your mind of the belief that I need your support!’ said Stephen.

Mrs Dean, realising that a woman’s soothing influence was called for, raised a finger, and said: ‘Now, Stevie! I shall have to say what I used to say to my girlies, when they were children: birds in their little nests agree!’

‘Actually, I believe they don’t,’ remarked Roydon.

If anything had been needed to set the seal to Mrs Dean’s disapproval of an impecunious playwright, this would have been enough. Perceiving a faintly purple tinge in her cheeks, Mr Blyth looked at his watch, and said with rare prudence that he must not miss his train.

This had the effect of breaking up the luncheon-party. Joseph bustled off to see whether the car had been brought round to the door; Mrs Dean said that what the young people wanted was a brisk walk to blow away the cobwebs, adding that Valerie must get Stephen to show her round the estate. Valerie, however, protested that it was a foul day, and filthily cold, and that she thought walking in the snow a lousy form of amusement anyway; and by the time her mother had taken her to task over her choice of adjectives, Stephen had vanished, and Paula had marched Roydon off to discuss the forthcoming production of Wormwood.