Sir Henry, who had continued his beating of the mantel-piece during this speech, stopped short and looked at her with a kind of nervousness.

‘Since announcements,’ said Miss Orrincourt, ‘are in the air, Noddy, haven’t we got something to say ourselves in that line? Or,’ she added ominously, ‘have we?’

She looked lovely standing there. It was an entirely plastic loveliness, an affair of colour and shape, of line and texture. It was so complete in its kind, Troy thought, that to bring a consideration of character or vulgarity to bear upon it would be to labour at an irrelevant synthesis. In her kind she was perfect. ‘What about it, Noddy?’ she said.

Sir Henry stared at her, pulled down his waistcoat, straightened his back and took her hand. ‘Whenever you wish, my dear,’ he said, ‘whenever you wish.’

Pauline and Millamant fell back from them, Cedric drew in his breath and touched his moustache. Troy saw, with astonishment, that his hand was shaking.

‘I had intended,’ Sir Henry said, ‘to make this announcement at The Birthday. Now, however, when I realize only too bitterly that my family cares little, cares nothing for my happiness’ (‘Papa!’ Pauline wailed), ‘I turn, in my hour of sorrow, to One who does Care.’

‘Uh-huh!’ Miss Orrincourt assented. ‘But keep it sunny-side-up, Petty-pie.’

Sir Henry, less disconcerted than one would have thought possible by this interjection, gathered himself together.

‘This lady,’ he said loudly, ‘has graciously consented to become my wife.’

Considering the intensity of their emotions, Troy felt that the Ancreds really behaved with great aplomb. It was true that Pauline and Millamant were, for a moment, blankly silent, but Cedric almost immediately ran out from cover and seized his grandfather by the hand.

‘Dearest Grandpapa—couldn’t be more delighted—too marvellous. Sonia, darling,’ he babbled, ‘such fun,’ and he kissed her.

‘Well, Papa,’ said Millamant, following her son’s lead but not kissing Miss Orrincourt, ‘we can’t say that it’s altogether a surprise, can we? I’m sure we all hope you’ll be very happy.’

Pauline was more emotional. ‘Dearest,’ she said, taking her father’s hands and gazing with wet eyes into his face, ‘dearest, dearest Papa. Please, please believe my only desire is for your happiness.’

Sir Henry inclined his head. Pauline made an upward pounce at his moustache. ‘Oh, Pauline,’ he said with an air of tragic resignation, ‘I have been wounded, Pauline! Deeply wounded!’

‘No,’ cried Pauline. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ sighed Sir Henry. ‘Yes.’

Pauline turned blindly from him and offered her hand to Miss Orrincourt. ‘Be good to him,’ she said brokenly. ‘It’s all we ask. Be good to him.’

With an eloquent gesture, Sir Henry turned aside, crossed the room, and flung himself into a hitherto unoccupied armchair. It made a loud and extremely vulgar noise.