No little man came, with a list of probable winners or a long involved message for some Old Charlie or Old George. It was half past seven on a cold February night; everybody was eating, stunned by the wireless, or gone to the pictures; and Sophia got straight through to Harry, at Taplow, and laconically told him about Mrs Carmody’s letter.

A series of Marvellous’s! came over the line, mingled with the noise of a gramophone, the barking of dogs and a roar of voices. Edward and Emily were as usual having a party, and though Sophia was pleased to have Harry’s whole-hearted approval of her schemes, she would have felt on safer ground if Harry had said Marvellous! a few less times and asked one or two sober questions about sleeping accommodation, living expenses, etc.; but it was no use expecting the impossible. She must boil Harry’s exclamations down into a useful weapon, part of a solid and united front.

‘Then I can tell Uncle Preston you’ll want to come, and you think it’s a good plan?’ she demanded.

‘I think it’s marvellous, darling. You tell the old fool so from me. Marvellous! I say, darling, would you like to speak to old Edward? He’s here, just by the receiver … Edward, I say, Edward …’

‘Not now, thanks. Give him my love. He and Emily must come and see us when we’re safely in. Any sign of a job yet?’

‘Nothing doing yet, darling. Old Edward’s going to speak to Roger Tidy about me. He’s putting on a show at the Imperial …’

‘Oh well, that’s grand. Very decent of Edward. Good luck. I’m going to tell Uncle Preston now. ’Bye.’

The hapless Uncle Preston had passed an exhausting morning in wrestling with the natural perversities of the French chalk trade (like so many other trades at this time it seemed possessed of a lumpish, sodden yet malignant demon which fell upon the French chalk purveyors at every turn and baffled them; it was easy to believe that the chalk was doing it on purpose); an embarrassing and distressing afternoon at the sale of his dead brother’s effects, where he had been very conscious of the handsome, shameless presence of Mrs North; and he had a slight touch of asthma. His high tea had been interrupted by the telephone, and when he returned to the table the haddock, in spite of being immediately popped down in front of the fire by Auntie Loo, had lost its first hot, smoky, delicate appeal. The bloom had gone off the tea, and he had been annoyed at having to tell that tiresome girl Sophia exactly how much the sale had realized. He also disliked, he very much disliked, having to mention that woman’s name to a young girl, to his own niece. It brought the whole sad, painful, disgraceful business too clearly into the open.

In short, Uncle Preston had passed a very disagreeable and tiring day.

His feelings, when the telephone bell rang for the second time to summon him from the quiet fireside, the muffled boom of the wireless and the sheets of the Evening Standard, may be imagined.