Sophia looked round the forlorn, dusty, untidy cottage, and then at Celia, and then at Francis, who was sitting on the sofa (whose springs, Sophia noticed, were giving way) looking depressed, and then back at the two notes in her hand.

‘Who is C. J. P. Pell?’ she asked robustly; more robustly than she felt.

‘He lives at Myrtle Cottage,’ explained Celia.

‘He’s an old sissy,’ growled Francis.

‘Any idea what he wants to see me about?’

Francis was silent.

‘Where’s Harry?’

‘Motoring with Juan. They’ve been out all day.’

Sophia went into the kitchen, where dirty cups and plates were piled in the sink, and put on a kettle for tea. She was trying hard not to feel depressed, but she could not help thinking that never had the poor little cottage seemed less attractive. Its native charm and air of happiness was almost lost under dust, bits, dirty crockery, dead flowers and a smell of stale tobacco smoke. It’s high time I came home, she thought grimly.

Celia had to go off almost immediately; and when she had gone, Francis came into the kitchen and leaned against the wall in silence, watching the kettle.

‘I’m sorry it’s all so beastly for you to come back to, my dear,’ he said at last.

‘Never mind. We’ll soon have it nice again. What a curse old Tessitt is. You seem very depressed. Is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘But something is? Do tell me. I can’t bear having things hanging over my head.’

‘It’s nothing much, really.’

‘Francis! For mercy’s sake!’

‘Well … it’s Toby’s mother.’

‘Toby’s mother? What on earth do you mean? Is she kicking up a fuss about your seeing Toby?’

‘Not yet; she may, though. She says she’s thinking about stopping us seeing each other.’

‘But why, in heaven’s name? What have you been up to?’

‘Oh nothing … nothing anyone normal would make a song about. It’s only that I wrote to Toby when I was frightfully fed up and used the word ‘bloody,’ and Toby’s mother found the letter and was awfully shocked, and now she says she doesn’t think I’m a fit person for Toby to go about with.’

‘Oh …’ Sophia was relieved. ‘Well, she’ll come round. You give her time. I thought it was something awful, from your face.’

‘That’s just it; she won’t come round. She won’t see me and let me explain. She says she must see you.’

‘What? ’

‘To talk it over, she says. Yes, I know it’s sickening for you. I’m frightfully sorry, dear. But she’s got it into her head that if she could see you, and you would tell her that I was really all right and respectable and everything, then she would believe it. She’s heard a lot about you: Toby’s told her, and she’d take your word, you see. I’m awfully sorry to have to ask you, my dear, but Toby and I would be eternally grateful if you could go and see her, and just explain.’