Well, he thought (carefully wiping a soft piece of toast round the plate so as to gather up all the runny part of the egg), Harry would have to be economical, that was all. He, Uncle Preston, would have to keep a most watchful eye on the three children and see that they did not grow extravagant, or get into debt. There would be much to do, much to arrange. There always was.

He finished his tea with a sigh, and wished again that Looie were there. She had a most soothing presence, like a quiet little cosy fire, or a cup of tea when you were tired. Uncle Preston did not compare her to these comforts, but that did not prevent him wanting her presence.

He went home to Looie; and that evening he did all that could at present be done. He telephoned Aunt Maxine and gave her a long, detailed and pessimistic account of the afternoon’s talk with Mr Marriot. He telephoned Aunt Grace, and did the same kind office for her. And he wrote to the headmaster of Northgate, and told him that Francis would leave at the half-term, or before if necessary.

And the boy’s fees would have to be paid, too. There was no end to the spending of money, the planning and botheration and anxiety.

The family then settled down, as much as it ever did, to wait for the sale.

It was held on a Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, so Sophia could have gone to it if she had liked, but she did not go.

She had only twenty pounds in the Post Office, for she had stopped trying to save money as soon as her mother died, and she was going to hang on to this nest egg and treat herself to a holiday abroad in the summer; or perhaps it might be useful if one of the boys got ill or into debt. Anyway, she was not going to spend it at the Surgery auction sale. Also, she dreaded seeing Mrs North, who was sure to be there, and who hated her and was so jealous of her that the feeling broke out in a terrifying, sneering, snakish insolence which made Sophia’s heart bang and her legs tremble.

Nor was she sure if she wanted some of the Surgery furniture in the cottage – (if they secured the cottage!). It would remind her of horrors; horrors would come winding out of the shining black oak like dark smoke. She would have loved to buy the little picture which she called Nydia, and the seamed old yellow table under which the boys and she used to play when they were all small, but it was no use; she could not afford to bid, she was afraid to go; and so she walked to the Vale instead, to look at the Cottage.

So far, she had only hinted that they might perhaps live together to Francis, who received the suggestion with surprise but with flattering pleasure and excitement, and had promised to sound Harry about it. And then, on the advice of Celia, Sophia had written what she described as a manly and straightforward letter to Mrs Carmody, who was staying with her eldest daughter at Rapallo, explaining her circumstances, prospects and desires; and now awaited, in an interesting mixture of hope and anxiety, Mrs Carmody’s reply.