‘The deuce we are!’ said Mathilda. ‘All right, Joe: I’ll co-operate. The perfect guest: that’s me. Where’s Cousin Maud?’

Maud was discovered presently in the morning-room. She seemed vaguely glad to see Mathilda, and gave her a cheek to kiss, remarking somewhat disconcertingly: ‘Poor Joseph is so set on an old-fashioned Christmas!’

‘All right, I’ve no objection to helping him,’ said Mathilda. ‘Shall I make paper-chains, or something? Who’s coming?’

‘Stephen and Paula, and Stephen’s fiancée, and of course Mr Mottisfont.’

‘It sounds like a riot of fun. Stephen would make any party go with a swing.’

‘Nathaniel does not care for Stephen’s fiancée,’ Maud stated.

‘You don’t say!’ remarked Miss Clare vulgarly.

‘She is very pretty,’ said Maud.

Mathilda grinned. ‘So she is,’ she admitted.

Mathilda was not pretty. She had good eyes, and beautiful hair, but not even in her dewy youth had she been able to deceive herself into thinking that she was good-looking. She had sensibly accepted her plainness, and had, she said, put all her money on style. She was much nearer thirty than twenty; she enjoyed private means; lived in a cottage not uncomfortably far from London; and eked out her income by occasional journalism, and the breeding of bull-terriers. Valerie Dean, who was Stephen’s fiancée, vaguely resented her, because she dressed so well, and made her plainness so arresting that she attracted a good deal of attention at parties at which Valerie had confidently expected to draw all eyes upon herself.

‘Of course, darling, it isn’t that I don’t like your cousin,’ Valerie told Stephen, ‘but it’s so silly to call her striking. Because she’s practically hideous, isn’t she, Stephen?’

‘Sure,’ said Stephen.

‘Do you think she’s so frightfully clever, Stephen? I mean, do you?’

‘Never thought about it. She’s a damned good sort.’

‘Oh, darling, that sounds absolutely foul!’ said Valerie, pleased. ‘Don’t you wish she weren’t going to be at Lexham?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Stephen, you are a swine! Why don’t you?’

‘I like her. I wish you’d shut your pretty little trap. I hate being yapped at when I’m driving.’

‘You are a low hound, Stephen. Do you love me?’

‘Yes, damn you!’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound as though you did. I’m pretty, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, my little bonehead, you’re lovely – Aphrodite and Helen rolled into one. Stop drivelling!’

‘Oh, I can’t think why I ever fell for you, darling. I think you’re foul!’ said Miss Dean cooingly.

He vouchsafed no answer to this remark, and his betrothed, apparently realising that his mood was not propitious, sank her chin into the collar of her fur coat, and relapsed into quiescent silence.

Their arrival at Lexham Manor coincided with that of Edgar Mottisfont, and all three were welcomed into the house by Joseph, who came trotting out into the porch, beaming with pleasure, and claiming the privilege of an old stager to embrace Valerie.

His rapt appreciation of the truly lovely picture she presented made Stephen look more than ordinarily sardonic, but was well received by his target. Miss Dean, who was indeed lovely, liked to hear her charms enthusiastically praised, and was not above responding to the arch sallies of old gentlemen. She lifted her large blue eyes to Joseph’s face, and told him that she knew he was dreadfully wicked, a pronouncement which delighted Joseph, and made Stephen say ill-naturedly: ‘A case of si vieillesse pouvait!’