‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘Come off it and do something. They’re in the library, sitting round a table. Plotting against me. I walked in, and there was Pauline giving an imitation of a cat-fight and telling them how I’d have to be got rid of.’

‘My dear, please, I can’t allow…Surely you’re mistaken.’

‘Am I dopey? I tell you I heard her. They’re all against me. I warned you before and I’m warning you again and it’s the last time. They’re going to frame me. I know what I’m talking about. It’s a frame-up. I tell you they’ve got me all jittery, Noddy. I can’t stand it. You can either come and tell them where they get off or it’s thanks for the buggy-ride and me for Town in the morning.’

He looked at her disconsolately, hesitated, and took her by the elbow. Her mouth drooped, she gazed at him dolorously. ‘It’s lonely here, Noddy,’ she said. ‘Noddy, I’m scared.’

It was strange to watch the expression of extreme tenderness that this instantly evoked; strange, and to Troy, painfully touching.

‘Come,’ Sir Henry said, stooping over her in his terrifying costume. ‘Come along. I’ll speak to these children.’

The little theatre was on the northern corner of the East Wing. When Troy had tidied up she looked out of doors and found a wintry sun still glinting feebly on Ancreton. She felt stuffed-up with her work. The carriage drive, sweeping downhill through stiffly naked trees, invited her. She fetched a coat and set out bare-headed. The frosty air stung her eyes with tears, the ground rang hard under her feet. Suddenly exhilarated she began to run. Her hair lifted, cold air ran over her scalp and her ears burned icily. ‘How ridiculous to run and feel happy,’ thought Troy, breathless. And slowing down, she began to make plans. She would leave the head. In two days, perhaps, it would be dry. Tomorrow, the hands and their surrounding drape, and, when he had gone, another hour or so through the background. Touch after touch and for each one the mustering of thought and muscle and the inward remembrance of the scheme.

The drive curved down between banks of dead leaves, and, overhead, frozen branches rattled in a brief visitation of wind, and she thought: ‘I’m walking under the scaffolding of summer.’ There, beneath her, were the gates. The sun had gone, and already fields of mist had begun to rise from the hollows. ‘As far as the gates,’ thought Troy, ‘and then back up the terraces.’ She heard the sound of hooves behind her in the woods and the faint rumbling of wheels. Out of the trees came the governess-cart and Rosinante, and there, gloved and furred and apparently recovered from her fury, sat Miss Orrincourt, flapping the reins.