‘Bless me, no. Of course not. Out of the question,’ said Uncle Preston briskly, draining his cup to the last rich milky drop, sitting suddenly upright, and putting it firmly on the table. ‘Quite impossible. Yes.’

Neither of them said why it would hardly do and was quite impossible, but they agreed about it, undoubtedly; and though no more was said that night of the children going to live in the cottage, Auntie Loo was sure that the conversation would bear the fruit which she wanted it to bear when Sophia telephoned tomorrow.

It occurred to her, as she stood plaiting her little tail of hair for bed that night, and staring mildly at her dumpy reflection in the mirror, that none of the relations had suggested that Sophia should go and live with them.

Girls, of course, were not so exciting as boys, and yet they were more of a responsibility. It was not an attractive combination. Auntie Loo, who had a soft spot for Sophia in her heart, would have hesitated a long time before she asked that large, silent, sometimes embarrassingly wild and outspoken girl to come and live at Forest Hill.

But when the embarrassing one telephoned the next day, she was delighted to find Uncle Preston almost converted to the plan.

He pointed out to her how convenient it would be to have the three children under one roof; what an advantage it would be for herself and for Francis to be near their work – if Mr Graby could find a post for Francis, that was – and how much more economical it would be to establish one household than three. Of course, he must see Mr Marriot and Mr Graby before anything could be done about moving in, but meanwhile perhaps it would be as well if Sophia wrote to her friend’s mother and told her that they were almost certain to take the cottage in, say, three weeks or a month.

Sophia had already written and posted the letter late the previous night, but she did not tell him so.

She had rapturously thanked Mrs Carmody, promised that they would be model tenants, and said that she would write again the moment she had any definite news.

And she had prudently added that they would probably like to take the cottage partly furnished, as she, Sophia, was the only one of the three who possessed any forks or pillows or bookshelves. Francis’s furniture consisted of most of the works of the late H. Rider Haggard, three silver cups which he had won at school for jumping and shooting, and a number of second-hand assegais and weapons of vaguely Oriental appearance but doubtful authenticity, which he called ‘My Collection’. All Harry’s possessions went round with him in two fat, battered, mysterious suitcases. They had also two sword sticks, which had belonged to Dr Garden, and which Francis had stolen one night from the Surgery soon after his father’s death because he wanted them for My Collection and no one else seemed to. These treasures, with Harry’s gramophone, were all they had.