‘And now,’ she said, still more brightly, ‘you feel ever so much better. You were just angry, and you had to work it off, didn’t you? But you know I can think of something that would be much better fun than fighting.’

‘No, you can’t,’ said the little girl instantly, and turned savagely on her opponent. ‘I’ll kill you,’ she said, and fell upon him.

‘Suppose,’ shouted Miss Able with determined gaiety above the shrieks of the contestants, ‘we all shoulder spades and have a jolly good marching song.’

The little girl rolled clear of her opponent, scooped up a handful of earth, and flung it madly and accurately at Miss Able. The little boy and several of the other children laughed very loudly at this exploit. Miss Able, after a second’s pause, joined in their laughter.

‘Little devil,’ said Paul. ‘Honestly, Fenella, I really do think a damn good hiding—’

‘No, no,’ said Fenella, ‘it’s the method. Listen.’

The ever-jolly Miss Able was saying: ‘Well, I expect I do look pretty funny, don’t I? Now, come on, let’s all have a good rowdy game. Twos and threes. Choose your partners.’

The children split up into pairs, and Miss Able, wiping the earth off her face, joined the three onlookers.

‘How you can put up with Panty,’ Paul began.

‘Oh, but she really is responding, splendidly,’ Miss Able interrupted. ‘That’s the first fight in seven and a half hours, and David began it. He’s rather a bad case of maladjustment, I’m afraid. Now, Patricia,’ she shouted. ‘Into the middle with you. And David, you see if you can catch her. One tries as far as possible,’ she explained, ‘to divert the anger impulse into less emotional channels.’

They left her, briskly conducting the game, and continued their ascent. On the fourth terrace they encountered a tall and extremely good-looking woman dressed in tweeds and a felt hat, and wearing heavy gauntleted gloves.

‘This is my mother,’ said Paul Kentish.

Mrs Kentish greeted Troy rather uncertainly: ‘You’ve come to paint Father, haven’t you?’ she said, inclining her head in the manner of a stage dowager. ‘Very nice. I do hope you’ll be comfortable. In these days—one can’t quite’—she brightened a little—‘but perhaps as an artist you won’t mind rather a Bohemian—’ Her voice trailed away and she turned to her son: ‘Paul, darling,’ she said richly, ‘you shouldn’t have walked up all those steps. Your poor leg. Fenella, dear, you shouldn’t have let him.’

‘It’s good for my leg, Mother.’

Mrs Kentish shook her head and gazed mistily at her glowering son. ‘Such a brave old boy,’ she said. Her voice, which was a warm one, shook a little, and Troy saw with embarrassment that her eyes had filled with tears: ‘Such an old Trojan,’ she murmured, ‘Isn’t he, Fenella?’