He removed his hat and placed himself before Gaunt. His change of manner was amazingly abrupt. He might have been a lightning impersonator or a marionette controlled by some pundit of secondrate etiquette. Suddenly, he oozed deference. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that I have had the honour—’

‘Mr Questing,’ said Dikon.

‘This is a great day for the Springs, sir,’ said Mr Questing. ‘A great day.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gaunt, glancing at him. ‘If I may I should like to see my rooms.’

He turned to Mrs Claire. ‘Dikon tells me you have taken an enormous amount of trouble on my behalf. It’s very kind indeed. Thank you so much.’ And Dikon saw that with this one speech, delivered with Gaunt’s famous air of gay sincerity, he had captivated Mrs Claire. She beamed at him. ‘I shall try not to be troublesome,’ Gaunt added. And to Mr Questing: ‘Right.’

They went in procession along the verandah. Mr Questing, still uncovered, led the way.

II

Barbara sat on the edge of her stretcher bed in her small hot room and looked at two dresses. Which should she wear for dinner on the first night? Neither of them was new. The red lace had been sent out two years ago by her youngest aunt who had worn it a good deal in India. Barbara had altered it to fit herself and something had gone wrong with the shoulders, so that it bulged where it should lie flat. To cover this defect she had attached a black flower to the neck. It was a long dress and she did not as a rule change for dinner. Simon might make some frightful comment if she wore the red lace. The alternative was a short floral affair, thick blue colour with a messy yellow design. She had furbished it up with a devilish shell ornament and a satin belt and even poor Barbara wondered if it was a success. Knowing that she should be in the kitchen with Huia, she pulled off her print, dragged the red lace over her head and looked at herself in the inadequate glass. No, it would never become her dress, it would always hark back to unknown Aunty Wynne who two years ago had written: ‘Am sending a box of odds and ends for Ba. Hope she can wear red.’ But could she? Could she plunge about in the full light of day in this ownerless waif of a garment with everybody knowing she had dressed herself up? She peered at her face, which was slightly distorted by the glass. Suddenly she hauled the dress over her head, fighting with the stuffy-smelling lace. ‘Barbara,’ her mother called. ‘Where are you? Ba!’ ‘Coming!’ Well, it would have to be the floral.