The sky was bright, the light poured out of it like showers of jewels, everything moved and swayed, singing, rustling, whispering. Francis, sitting on the step of the Cottage waiting for Sophia to come in the van, had a delightful feeling that Uncle Preston, Mr Graby, Aunt Grace and the rest were countless miles away.

It was marvellous to be moving into their own little house (Francis was a domesticated person, despite his air of fierce elegance), where they would be able to do as they liked for the first time in their lives. And on Monday his job began! He felt, as usual, solemn with the desire that everything should go off properly, but very happy. If only he had been able to ride in the van, as well as Sophia, he would not have had a wish ungratified. But somebody had to be at the Cottage, of course, to open the door and welcome the van when it arrived after the short journey from Sophia’s lodging.

He had already arranged My Collection on the narrow shelf intended to hold ornamental plates and mugs, which ran round the panelled walls of the sitting room, and it looked really impressive. This evening he would clean his silver cups and arrange them.

A sour-looking gentleman strolled past, followed by a suspicious, yellow, stiff-legged dog with a superb chest.

Both strollers looked nosily at Francis. He returned their stares with hauteur. If the gentleman had said ‘Moving in?’ Francis planned to reply ‘No – building an aeroplane,’ but the gentleman said nothing; he prowled in at the gate of a little house near by, carefully closing it after him, and was seen no more.

Here came the van, with Sophia sitting next Mr Cross’s young driver and talking to him in an absorbed and friendly manner. She had no hat and her short fair hair flew about her pale cheeks in the wind.

They were discussing Communism, of which the young man disapproved. Sophia, who was beginning to dabble in its doubtful waters, was trying to defend it without making any sweeping statements; she disapproved of them. As she knew nothing about Communism her task was difficult. Mr Cross’s young man had a low opinion of the Russians. His father had fought at Murmansk with the British Expeditionary Force there in 1918, and had dreadful stories to tell, which his son duly repeated in defence of his views. As a result, Sophia hopped down from the van with half of her mind in the Vale and half of it in an imaginary Russia lowering with snow, resounding with wounded cries, the horizon dark with miles of swaying pines, the unending low mutter of guns …

‘I’m glad none of the relatives are here,’ said Francis, helping her to carry in a tall narrow bookshelf. ‘Aunt Grace rang up to say could she and Angela come and help? I said, no they couldn’t.’

‘It’s nice having the telephone. Where shall we stand it? On top of the little bookshelf?’