‘She wasn’t ill, she was only pretending.’

‘No she wasn’t, it was that filthy fish paste.’

‘Well, I don’t care if it poisons her, little beast. Coming here half-drunk and sneering at us and our food and our friends.’

‘Your friends, you mean. Mine are all right.’

‘Mine weren’t drunk, anyway.’

‘No, they were damned dull, which is worse. It was all your fault. You’re always the same – asking a lot of highbrows who spoil everything. They don’t know how to enjoy themselves. They make me sick. And why couldn’t you get some decent food?

‘I ran out of money. And besides, the shops were all shut. I did my best. At least, that’s not quite true – I could have got some food in town and brought it in, but I was tired and didn’t bother.’

‘And what did you want to sneer at Sally for, making her cry, poor little sweet? She’s a grand kid. Do you know she keeps her mother on her salary?’

‘Who says so?’

‘She does – and it’s true.’

‘Well, I don’t believe it’ (but, having a tender heart she did, and remorse made her feel angrier than ever). ‘And even if she does, that’s no excuse for getting drunk.’

‘Oh you’re perfect, of course. Pity you don’t get drunk sometimes; it would do you good.’

She turned away to hide her tears, and was going slowly up to bed in silence when Francis appeared, breathing toothpaste and satisfaction. He was not depressed. He was going to ring up Toby tomorrow.

He saw at once what had happened, and competently set himself to smooth matters. He was used to being a buffer state between Sophia and Harry; he was so like the one in nature, and loved the other so dearly, that he knew how each one felt when Sophia’s principles and Harry’s tastes came into combat.

He said nothing, but kissed Sophia ‘goodnight’ tenderly and squeezed her shoulders and sent her up to bed with the feeling that somebody loved her, and then gently led Harry into reciting his woes in a low and grizzling monotone which greatly relieved his feelings. For nearly an hour Francis, lying in his bed beside Harry’s, listened to rhetorical questions, self-justifications, grievances, legitimate and otherwise, and never once vehemently agreed with nor contradicted his brother. He was used to this rôle; he had been doing it since he was five years old.

In her room, Sophia lay listening to the rise and fall of voices in the darkness. She was not feeling hurt any more. Harry had not meant what he said; he never did. Tomorrow, when the fumes of the party had worn off, he would be sorry.

But just after three o’clock struck from the tower of Enbury Church, high above the Vale on its hill, she heard the light switched on in the next room. Someone got out of bed.

Her door opened gently.

‘Sophia,’ whispered a voice, ‘are you awake, dear?’