‘I want a little girl, with perfect teeth. One I can have jokes with, who won’t talk when I want to be quiet,’ thought Francis in his turn. ‘These girls are too expensive for me, and too excitable.’ And though he did not put the thought clearly to himself, he was also a little afraid that these young women, in whose natures so little of childishness remained, might laugh at My Collection, his admiration for Rider Haggard’s stories, and other things which were dear to him.

What did Sophia think, as she lay upstairs late at night in bed with her severe young face dutifully cold-creamed against the ravages of weather and the calm assault of Time?

It would be half past twelve, perhaps, when the taxi would wake her up, stopping, of course, just under her window.

‘Jeez! where’s the beer? June, you dumb-bell, you’re responsible. Harry darling, where are you? I can’t see. Is this the cottage? Jeez! isn’t it cute?’

Then Francis, opening the front door and standing on the threshold with his legs a little apart, looking rather dramatic and impressive and not saying anything:

‘Hullo, old cock!’

‘Jeez! where’s my bag? June, you had it. You borrowed my lipstick …’

‘Sh-h-h—’

‘Sh-h-h yourself. I can do that, too. Why should I sh-h-h, anyway?’

‘You’ll wake my sister.’

‘Oh, god, a million pardons, I’m sure. Got the beer? Come on, June …’

Whispers, sudden bursts of laughter, somebody stumbles over a chair, the sound of the electric light switch, the sound of beer being opened, the murmur of voices, silence, the switch again … silence.

Sophia, lying awake in the dark, would tell herself that after all, it was only the third time this had happened and that it was all quite harmless. They were only drinking two bottles of beer and kissing a little in the dark, and being very quiet. It would be easy for her to drop off to sleep again; nice of them to try not to wake her. There was no doubt that her brothers loved her and considered her feelings; and that was all the more reason why she should not show signs of disapproval over their way of enjoying themselves. After all, they had never had any fun as children. It was perfectly natural now that the cork, so to speak, was removed, that the champagne of youth should foam out of the bottle.

Whatever happened, at all costs she must never kill their affection for her by making herself a tiresome, fussing elder sister, a sort of female Uncle Preston.

Any amount of Junes and beer and kisses would be better than that.

All the same, Junes and beer scarcely fitted in with her first noble conception of ‘orderly lives’. Something would have to go overboard; and as she turned upon her side, feeling suddenly lonely and shut away in her little room from the warmth and kisses in the room below, she decided that it would probably have to be the orderly lives.