The children were rather proud of these marks than otherwise and used to point them out to shocked visitors, but as they grew older they perceived that such scars were causes for shame rather than pride, and tried not to look at them.

It was really not very surprising that Sophia wrote poetry about objects which were as different as they could possibly be from the objects which made up life at the Surgery, Enbury Fields.

Francis was upstairs, moving among the assembled relatives like a hypocritical butler, offering condolences and enquiring after their healths and storing up their surprised but grateful answers to relate, with sneers, to Harry and Sophia later.

The relatives had an awful fascination for Francis. He hated them but he could not leave them alone. Thus, when Sophia suggested that he should sit on the stairs with her and wait for Harry, he said no, he thought he would stay upstairs with the old fools instead, or else there was sure to be a ghastly fuss.

Sophia, knowing his peculiar little ways, had said that he was quite right. It was always best to be prudent, and suck up when you could. And she had sighed, for she herself was not much use at sucking up or at being prudent, adding hastily, ‘Not that you suck up, darling. Somebody has to spy out the land and find out what they’re thinking about things and what they’re likely to do; then we can be warned in time.’

Aunt Grace, Uncle Oliver’s widow, came out on to the upper landing, peered over at Sophia, and called her a funny girl for liking to sit down there in the cold. There was a gorgeous fire in the sitting room. Hadn’t Sophia better come up?

‘I’m all right, thank you, Aunt Grace. I’m waiting for Harry.’

‘You look very cold, dear. Quite blue. And do you know you have a hole in your heel? – the left one. Won’t you just pop into the bedroom and let me catch it up for you? You must look neat, you know. It’s very important for a girl; I’m always telling Angela so. Men don’t like untidy girls.’

‘I don’t want them to like me.’

‘Now, dear, I’m sure you don’t mean that. It’s just silly. All girls want men to like them; and surely you want a home and dear little children of your own?’

‘Not particularly, thanks.’

‘Oh come, dear, I’m sure you do. Angela does. She’s so sweet about it.’

Beastly little nim, thought Sophia; and made no reply. Conversations with Aunt Grace had a curious way of plunging immediately into the profondities. She came out on to the landing to ask if you would come upstairs, and in a few sentences you were arguing with her about whether you wanted any children or not. It was certainly very odd.

Sophia said firmly, ‘I think I’ll stay here, thank you, Aunt Grace,’ and with a sigh and a ‘Just as you please, funny girl,’ Aunt Grace went back into the sitting room.