‘She’s asking about perspective,’ he said.

‘Give her rat-poison,’ said Parish.

‘Shut up,’ said Cubitt and went out.

‘What was he talking about?’ demanded Watchman.

Parish smiled. ‘He’s got a girl-friend. Wait till you see. Funny chap! He went quite green over your story. Sensitive old beggar, isn’t he?’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Watchman lightly. ‘I must say I’m sensitive in a rather different key where cyanide’s concerned, having been nearly killed by it.’

‘I don’t know you could have a—what did you call it?’

‘An idiosyncrasy?’

‘It means you’d go under to a very small amount?’

‘It does.’ Watchman yawned and stretched himself full length on the settle.

‘I’m sleepy,’ he said. ‘It’s the sea air. A very pleasant state of being. Just tired enough, with the impressions of a long drive still floating about behind one’s consciousness. Flying hedges, stretches of road that stream out before one’s eyes. The relaxation of arrival setting in. Very pleasant!’

He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned his head to look at his cousin.

‘So Decima Moore is still here,’ he said.

Parish smiled. ‘Very much so. But you’ll have to watch your step, Luke.’ ‘Why?’

‘There’s an engagement in the offing.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Decima and Will Pomeroy.’

Watchman sat up.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said sharply.

‘Well—why not?’

‘Good Lord! A politically minded pot-boy.’

‘Actually they’re the same class,’ Parish murmured.

‘Perhaps; but she’s not of it.’

‘All the same—’

Watchman grimaced.

‘She’s a little fool,’ he said, ‘but you may be right,’ and lay back again. ‘Oh well!’ he added comfortably.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘There’s another female here,’ said Parish, and grinned.

‘Another? Who?’

‘Norman’s girl-friend of course. My oath!’

‘Why? What’s she like? Why are you grinning away like a Cheshire cat, Seb?’

‘My dear soul,’ said Parish, ‘if I could get that woman to walk on the boards every evening and do her stuff exactly as she does it here—well, of course! I’d go into management and die a millionaire.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s the Honourable Violet Darragh. She waters.’

‘She what?’

‘She does water-colours. Wait till you hear Norman on Violet.’

‘Is she a nuisance?’ asked Watchman apprehensively.

‘Not exactly. Well, in a way. Pure joy to me. Wait till you meet her.’

Parish would say no more about Miss Darragh, and Watchman, only mildly interested, relapsed into a pleasant doze.

‘By the way,’ he said presently, ‘some driving expert nearly dashed himself to extinction against my bonnet.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. At Diddlestock Corner. Came bucketing out of the blind turning on my right, beat me by a split second, and hung his silly little stern on my front bumpers. Ass!’

‘Any damage?’

‘No, no. He heaved his pygmy up by the bottom and I backed away. Funny sort of fellow he is.’

‘You knew him?’ asked Parish in surprise.