It is extremely odd to realize that men once naturally wrote music of this kind, and lyrics like ‘Come Unto These Yellow Sands.’ It is like looking back, in an immense black cave, at the small sunlit door by which one entered.

Sophia, listening with great pleasure to the waltz, thought vaguely about these things, while Francis, Harry and Celia also listened with pleasure, and Francis remarked that it was a nice little tune. Just as Sophia was putting the record away, a peremptory scratching noise was heard at the front door.

‘Aunt Maxine!’ whispered Harry in horror, prepared to fly up to the bedroom.

‘No, I expect it’s Taffy. He always used to do that when Mother and I were here last winter,’ and Celia went across to open the door.

A graceful golden-brown dog stepped inside, sneezing with excitement, his curled feather of a tail waving condescendingly. He took no notice of anyone but Celia, whom he licked with some fervour, and then went into the kitchen.

‘Is he thirsty?’ asked Francis respectfully.

‘I don’t expect so, but he always likes a saucer of water,’ explained Celia, drawing some for him. He showed signs of pleasure and sneezed again two or three times as he sat down in front of the fire, but he did not touch the water.

‘Does he always do that?’ demanded Sophia.

‘Yes. He hardly ever drinks but he makes an awful set-out if you don’t put down a saucer for him.’

‘I call it a piece of confounded cheek,’ grumbled Sophia, who had stepped into the saucer. ‘If he wants to go on coming here, he’ll have to give up that trick.’

‘Oh no, he’s a darling,’ chorussed the other three, patting Taffy who sat sneezing, staring into the fire, and ignoring everybody.

He sat there for a few more minutes, and then delighted them by suddenly getting up and off-handedly holding out a paw to Harry as though to say, ‘Well, I must be off. ’Night.’ Harry took the damp hairy paw and shook it, and Taffy went over to the door, scrabbled to be let out, and disappeared into the darkness.

That reminded Celia that she must go too, and off she went, after kissing them all good night and taking a last pleased look round the warm untidy room and her three friends.

Sophia watched her walk down the damp pavement under the feeble light of the lamp on the edge of the Heath, a small and lonely figure with hands in pockets and bare head. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Celia was a solitary girl, in spite of one or two close friendships and her serious, maternal interest in the young men who were in love with her. She was like the little waltz; lonely, dignified, lovable, and content.

Then she turned back to her house, and closed the door on the loneliness and the night.

Harry was winding the clock, Francis was locking the window. The beds were made, and the washing-up stacked neatly on the pull-out flap in the kitchen which was used as a table, the bedroom curtains were drawn and the coverlets had been turned back by Celia, who had performed this rite for herself and her sisters ever since she was nine years old. Silence, warmth, a feeling that everything was drowsily settling down for the night filled the cottage.