‘The sister’s away. I saw her go off on Saturday.’

‘That accounts for it.’

‘Old Pell will probably send her one of his notes when she comes back.’

‘Sure to. He’s too fond of notes.’

‘No, but really. It’s a bit too much of a good thing …’

At four o’clock the Vale had gone back to its beds to get what sleep it could. The noise in the cottage had subsided to what may be described as a dull red glow with occasional flickers. By five o’clock, when a lovely morning was coming into the east, there was an exhausted silence which was not broken until just before eleven, when the gramophone started again and shameless figures in dressing gowns and shirtsleeves and pyjamas came out, yawning and dancing, to take in the milk.

When Sophia got back to England on the afternoon of September the third, which was a Saturday, she was pleased to find that the autumn had begun. The trees were turning, and subtlety had come into the light. She had enjoyed her holiday very much, though it had only been spent wandering in Boulogne and over the sand dunes just outside it. She approached Boulogne with respect as a town, not as a cross between a joke and a place where Channel boats stopped, and it rewarded her with an atmosphere, a history and the strangeness of a foreign place.

Celia met her, and they treated themselves to a taxi back to the cottage.

Celia was rather silent. Sophia suspected some fresh bogglement with Capel, and tactfully said nothing about the silence; she asked whether Celia had seen anything of the boys.

Celia started out of a dream.

‘Not much … no.’

‘Did you go to Harry’s party? I sent a wire. Bless him.’

‘I just looked in.’

‘Was it a good one? Where did they have it?’

‘At the cottage.’

‘I thought they were having it at The Judge’s House?’

‘The aunt wouldn’t let them.’

‘Oh lord, then I suppose they had it at the cottage.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it a good one?’

‘Pretty good. I can’t stick Juan, you know. He is so intellectually lazy.’

‘Celia, what’s the matter? Was it a ghastly party?’

‘No … it was all right. I didn’t stay till the end.’

Sophia asked no more questions. A foreboding began to chill her. What, oh what, had Harry and Francis been up to? She felt aggrieved, She had not been three hours in England and already something awful was looming over her. It was too bad. The delightful lazy peace of her holiday was already receding like a dream.

At home she found two notes awaiting her.

‘Dear Miss Garden,

I have been bad with my legs the doctor says I am to rest them so I have taken a few days of the hill would be sure to make them worse so if the place is a bit dusty you will now Sincerely, L. Tessitt.’

‘Mr C. J. P. Pell would be grateful if Miss Garden could spare him a minute on her return. Mr Pell has a matter of importance to discuss with Miss Garden.’