She never knew when they would be in to supper or to meals at the weekends. The domestic evenings with My Collection and the baked beans had vanished into the happier past. My Collection was never cleaned; and Francis had sold half of his dear Rider Haggard books when he was quite without money one Saturday morning, and he proposed (though not without regret) soon to sell the other half. He also sold gramophone records and the two sword sticks.

The three knew all about selling things, because they used to help their mother to do this when she was being kept particularly short of money by her husband; the knowledge was one of the useful legacies left them by their upbringing.

Of course Sophia did not like selling books and sword sticks. Irritating girl! she liked hardly anything her brothers did at this time. She was always protesting, gently arguing, trying to be tactful, trying not to be like Uncle Preston, and yet avoid being like Aunt Maxine, trying to crush her own boring love of law and order, trying to save some money to go for a week’s holiday in France at the end of August. She had a fortnight’s holiday, but could only afford to go away for a week. Nevertheless, as she had never been abroad she was looking forward very much to the journey, the new smells and sounds and sights.

It was the one touch of happiness in a wretched month.

She managed, somehow, to keep the state of affairs from the relatives.

Uncle Preston was often in touch with her at this time, because he had to let Harry know how the negotiations with Dr Cameron were going, and as Harry was seldom in, Sophia had to take messages for him.

‘And how are things with you all?’ Uncle Preston would ask, scenting decay from afar with that devilish sixth sense possessed by one’s relations. ‘All well? All prosperous? All happy?’

‘Yes, thank you, Uncle Preston.’

‘Your Aunt Maxine and I are always ready, you know, to help you out of any little difficulty. Yes.’

‘Yes, I know, Uncle Preston. Thanks most awfully.’

‘I do not mean money difficulties, heh! heh! heh! We are not millionaires. By the way, I understand that Harry has written to Mr Marriot asking for all the money which has been collecting from the practice during the last two months. Is that so?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘Well … I strongly advised Marriot not to let him have it. What can he want it for? What does he spend his money on?’

‘I don’t know,’ said his niece, truthfully this time.

‘Well, it is all most annoying. Most worrying…. Yes.’

It is that, thought Sophia as she hung up the receiver. And how much worse it would be when the state of affairs at the cottage could no longer be hidden from the relatives, and they had to know that she and Harry and Francis had failed to make a home together!