Francis opened the door and the blue sky glimmering with soft stars, a breath of sweet night air and solemnity floated in; and in, too, floated four beautiful young people who shone like candles, because their natural vitality was a little heightened by drink. They eclipsed the salon completely. The Footlights swept everything before them.

‘Hullo! Hullo, Francis!’

‘Hul-lo, Sophia! How are you, my dear!’

‘Oh Harry, what a darling place! isn’t it sweet!’

‘My god, you’ve got a fug on in here, haven’t you? Leave the door open for a bit. Emily, have some gin, my sweet. What have you all been doing? You were very quiet as we came up – not a sound.’

‘Ah-ha!’

Someone put a hot record on the gramophone; and gaiety began to pump up into the rather stagnant air. Emily stood with one elbow on the mantelpiece, talking to Sophia, who never tired of looking at her red curls, her white skin and large clear green eyes. She was a beautiful young woman, who heightened her loveliness by nothing more artificial than clothes that fitted her perfectly proportioned body, and a collection of rich, loose fur coats with big collars which made her little face look even more exotic than it was. On looking at Emily, one first thought, ‘But this cannot be real,’ and then one looked again and thought, ‘But it is, ye gods!’

The same could not be said for the young person who was sitting on Harry’s knee and patting his face.

Sophia and Celia, in discussing this person afterwards, agreed that it was not the Paint nor was it the Being Drunk, nor the Pawing Harry. No; it was the air of contemptuous amusement which this young person, who was aged about seventeen and whose beauty suggested a ripe damson, carefully painted, turned upon the cottage, its furnishings and its inhabitants.

‘Who’s that?’ cautiously enquired Sophia of Edward, who had joined his wife and his hostess at the mantelpiece.

Edward’s dark face, as attractive in its more severe masculine lines as Emily’s, became indignant. He was an extremely kind young man with good manners which even a little too much gin could not drown.

‘Hasn’t Harry introduced you? He is the extent. Harry, you old fool, come here a minute.’

‘No, darling. Stay with me,’ said the damson, embracing Harry. And it added in a piercing whisper, which alcohol made more shrill than was intended, ‘Your shister doeshn’t like me.’

In this there was no more than the truth, for Sophia, who certainly was a prig, had taken umbrage at the poor little damson, and refused even to look at it.

‘Yesh she doesh. Don’t be silly. You’re ’magining things, my sweet. Of coursh she liksh you. Sophia! Sally thinks you don’t like her. Come here a minute.’

But Sophia had gone into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for Emily, who drank little alcohol because it was bad for her complexion, and would not hear.