Upon this scene came Paul Kentish. He limped rapidly down the aisle, seized his sister by the slack of her garments and, picking her up very much as if she was a kitten, attempted to stand her on her feet. Panty drew up her legs and hung from his grasp, in some danger, Troy felt, of suffocation. ‘Stop it at once, Panty,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a very naughty girl.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Troy. ‘I don’t think she has, honestly. I mean, not in the way you think. There’s a muddle, I’m certain of it.’

Paul relinquished his hold. Panty sat on the floor, sobbing harshly, a most desolate child.

‘It’s all right,’ said Troy, ‘I’ll explain. You didn’t do it, Panty, and you shall paint if you still want to.’

‘She’s not allowed to come out of school,’ said Paul. ‘Caroline Able will be here in a minute.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Cedric.

Miss Able arrived almost immediately, cast a professionally breezy glance at her charge and said it was dinner-time. Panty, with a look at Troy which she was unable to interpret, got to her feet.

‘Look here…’ said Troy.

‘Yes?’ said Miss Able cheerfully.

‘About this looking-glass business. I don’t think that Panty…’

‘Next time she feels like that we’ll think of something much more sensible to do, won’t we, Patricia?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think she did it.’

‘We’re getting very good at just facing up to these funny old things we do when we’re silly, aren’t we, Patricia? It’s best just to find out why and then forget about them.’

‘But…’

‘Dinner!’ cried Miss Able brightly and firmly. She removed the child without any great ado.

‘Dearest Mrs Alleyn,’ said Cedric, waving his hands. ‘Why are you so sure Panty is not the author of the insult on the Old Person’s mirror?’

‘Has she ever called him “Grandfather”?’

‘Well, no,’ said Paul. ‘No, actually she hasn’t.’

‘And what’s more…’ Troy stopped short. Cedric had moved to her painting table. He had taken up a piece of rag and was using it to clean a finger-nail. Only then did Troy realize that the first finger of the right hand he had waved at her had been stained dark crimson under the nail.

He caught her eye and dropped the rag.

‘Such a Paul Pry!’ he said. ‘Dipping my fingers in your paint.’

But there had been no dark crimson laid out on her palette.

‘Well,’ said Cedric shrilly, ‘shall we lunch?’