‘That’ll be another book to be filched from her, and disposed of,’ remarked Stephen in Mathilda’s ear, rather too audibly.

She started, for she had not heard him come into the room. He was standing just behind her, with his hands in his pockets, and his pipe between his teeth. He looked sardonically pleased; life had quickened in his eyes; and there was a suspicion of a smile playing about his mouth. Knowing him, Mathilda guessed that he had been enjoying a quarrel, probably with his uncle. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said abruptly.

He looked down at her, eyebrows a trifle raised. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve been quarrelling with your uncle.’

‘Oh, that! I usually do.’

‘You’re almost certainly his heir.’

‘So I understand.’

‘Did Nat actually tell you so?’ she asked, surprised.

‘No. Improving homily from dear Uncle Joe.’

‘When?’

‘Last night, after you’d gone to bed.’

‘Stephen, did Joe say that? That Nat had made you his heir?’

He shrugged. ‘Not as tersely as that. Arch hints, winks, and nudges.’

‘I expect he knows. You’d better watch your step. I wouldn’t put it beyond Nat to change his mind.’

‘I daresay you’re right,’ he said indifferently.

She felt a sudden stab of exasperation. ‘Then why annoy him?’

His pipe had gone out, and he began to relight it. Over the bowl his eyes glinted at her. ‘Bless your heart, I don’t annoy him! He doesn’t like my intended.’

‘Do you?’ she demanded, before she could stop herself.

He looked at her, evidently enjoying her unaccustomed discomfiture. ‘Obviously.’

‘Sorry!’ she said briefly, and turned away.

She began, somewhat viciously, to straighten the little candles on the tree. As well as one knew Stephen one still could not get to the bottom of him. He might be in love with Valerie; he might have grown out of love with her; he might even be merely obstinate. But fool enough to whistle a fortune down the wind from mulishness? No man would be fool enough for that, thought Mathilda cynically. She glanced sideways at him, and thought, Yes, you would; you’d be fool enough for anything in this mood. Like my bull-terriers: bristling, snarling, looking for trouble, always convinced you’ve got to fight, even when the other dog wants to be friendly. Oh, Stephen, why will you be such an ass?

She looked at him again, not covertly this time, since his attention was not on her, and saw that he was watching Valerie, whom Joseph had drawn into one of the window-embrasures. He was not quite smiling, but he seemed to Mathilda to be enjoying some hidden jest. She thought, Yes, but you’re not an ass; I’m not at all sure that you’re not rather devilish, in fact. You’re cold-blooded, and you have a twisted sense of humour, and I wish I knew what you were thinking. Then another thought flashed across her mind, startling her: I wish I hadn’t come here!

As though in answer, Paula said suddenly: ‘O God, how I hate this house!’