‘What’ll you do? You can’t do anything. We can do as we like,’ said Harry slowly, staring.

‘Can’t I, by god? I can, and I will. I’ll get the whole family on to this, you see, and I’ll cable to Juan’s uncle in South America, too. Uncle Preston and Mr Marriot can stop the Deedle going, he’s under age. You shan’t go. I won’t sit down and see you mucking up your whole lives and going the way Father did. I won’t. I can’t bear it. You must both be mad. You know what his life was like, and how ghastly miserable he made us all for years and years, and killed Mother, and in spite of knowing all that, and knowing he was a drunkard and neurotic and so miserable that he used to say he was in hell now, and so he didn’t care if he burned in hell after he was dead – in spite of all that you want to start living the same kind of life that he did.’

She stopped, the tears running down, and stared from one to the other. Francis moved uneasily and said in a conciliatory tone—

‘Oh rot. You’re just being melodramatic, like Uncle Preston. You take things much too seriously. It’s just because Father never had a good time when he was young that he got in such an awful state when he was old. We shan’t be like that. We’re going to get it out of our systems while we’re young. As for Uncle Preston, i he added fiercely, ‘if he tries to stop me doing anything, I’ll—’ he paused. A mantle of icy dignity fell upon him. ‘I shall ignore the poor old swine,’ he ended gently.

‘Old Marriot can’t do anything either,’ said Harry. ‘I’m of age. I’ve got my money. He can’t do a thing legally.’

‘They can make themselves beastly unpleasant. They can telephone and come round here and be a damned nuisance.’

‘Let them try. There’s nothing I’d like better than putting the police on to Uncle Preston.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody silly, Harry. You make me sick.’

‘And so do you make me sick, trying to interfere with our lives and run us. God,’ he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth – ‘god, the rage I get in when anyone tries to run me. I’m like Father—’

‘Yes, you are like Father. You both are. You can’t run yourselves and you won’t let other people, who are better balanced, run you either.’

‘We won’t let you run us, anyway, so get that quite dear.’

‘I don’t want to run you.’

‘Yes, you do. Like Uncle Preston and the whole rotten, melodramatic, nosy crew. I hate them.’

‘Oh Harry … I’m not like Uncle Preston!’

‘Yes you are. You’re too virginal and priggish for words, always being shocked and hating being kissed and trying to stop people leading normal lives. You’re just like Uncle Preston.’

‘I’m not – I’m not!’

‘You are a bit, Sophia,’ said Francis, judicially. ‘Especially about parties.’