The robust vulgarity of these goings-on was not out of character if Miss Orrincourt was considered. Was it, Troy wondered with an uneasy grin, remotely possible that Miss Orrincourt resented the somewhat florid attentions Sir Henry had lavished upon his guest? Could she have imagined that the sittings had been made occasions for even more marked advances, more ardent pattings of the hand, closer pilotings by the elbow? ‘Crikey,’ Troy muttered, writhing uncomfortably, ‘what an idea to get in the middle of the night!’ No, it was too far-fetched. Perhaps one of the elderly maids had lost her wits and taken to this nonsense. ‘Or Barker,’ thought the now sleepy Troy. In the drumming of rain and wind about her room she began to hear fantastical things. Presently she dreamed of flying bombs that came out of the night, converging on her tower. When they were almost upon her they changed into green cows, that winked broadly, and with a Cedric-like flirt dropped soft bombs, at the same time saying very distinctly: ‘Plop, plop, dearest Mrs Alleyn.’

‘Mrs Alleyn. Dearest Mrs Alleyn, do please wake up.’

Troy opened her eyes. Fenella, fully dressed, stood at her bedside. In the thin light of dawn her face looked cold and very white. Her hands opened and shut aimlessly. The corners of her mouth turned down like those of a child about to cry. ‘What now, for pity’s sake?’ cried Troy.

‘I thought I’d better come and tell you. Nobody else would. They’re all frantic. Paul can’t leave his mother, and Mummy’s trying to stop Aunt Dessy having hysterics. I feel so ghastly, I had to talk to someone.’

‘But why? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Grandfather. When Barker went in with his tea. He found him. Lying there. Dead.’

There is no more wretched lot than that of the comparative stranger in a house of grief. The sense of loneliness, the feeling that one constantly trespasses on other people’s sorrow, that they would thankfully be rid of one; all these circumstances reduce the unwilling intruder to a condition of perpetual apology that must remain unexpressed. If there is nothing useful to be done this misery is the more acute, and Troy was not altogether sorry that Fenella seemed to find some comfort in staying with her. She hurriedly made a fire on top of last night’s embers, set Fenella, who shivered like a puppy, to blow it up while she herself bathed and dressed, and, when at last the child broke down, listened to a confused recital which harked back continually to the break between herself and her grandfather. ‘It’s so awful that Paul and I should have made him miserable. We’ll never be able to forgive ourselves—never,’ Fenella sobbed.

‘Now, look here,’ said Troy, ‘that just doesn’t make sense. You and Paul did what you have every right to do.’