Vivian slept until late, or at least she lolled in her bed insisting that she was exhausted and couldn’t get up. Nanny sympathised. ‘Too much dancing, that’s your trouble.’ Mrs Foster knew there hadn’t been much dancing. ‘You just don’t know when enough is enough. When to say no.’ That Mrs Foster could agree with. She allowed the indolence. She didn’t want to see her daughter’s stupid face. A slack mix of expectancy, hope, shame and glee. If she was at all ashamed. She hadn’t seemed it last night. Quite drunk, anaesthetised.

Mrs Foster found her husband in the drawing room waiting for the newspapers to be brought to him. In big houses the papers were ironed; the butler brought them to the master on a silver tray. The Fosters had three members of staff and none of them had time to iron newspapers, although some standards were to be maintained so Mrs Foster insisted that the housekeeper bring in the newspapers on a tray; she tried to ignore the fact that it was wicker. Mr Foster always grinned at this affectation and Mrs Foster always grimaced at the compromise.

Theirs was a sincere and reasonably candid relationship. It had not been without its strains and bleakness, but they had settled into a comforting, not overly demanding familiarity. Twenty-two years of intimacy and concessions, combined with ever-reducing financial circumstances, meant that they chose to talk to one another quite openly about most things. Mrs Foster admired her husband’s integrity; he admired her foresight; together they were a strong team. She explained it all to him.

‘Well, what’s the harm of a bit of kissing? They are practically engaged, aren’t they?’

‘Practically, in this case, is synonymous with not at all. You have to remember, Cecil, we have three daughters and Vivian’s position as the eldest is key.’ Mrs Foster had spent years intervening between the girls. Delicately, trying not to show that the first-born, careless one was after all her pet, that the next, slightly chubbier one (who tried so hard) in fact rather irritated (her very gusto grated), and that she barely noticed the smallest one, who came after a boy and had been neither expected nor celebrated. Two girls were more than enough for any mother to settle. Still, she did her duty for them. She quelled giggling fits, reminded them of their deportment, brought governesses and dressmakers to the nursery, introduced the girls to the right people. She knew they must whirl and flush; she also knew when they must sit tight and wait. Each was intrinsically linked to the next whether they liked it or not. If Vivian married well, it would help the younger two enormously. She had a duty; she must follow instructions. ‘If she messes it up, then their chances are scuppered. There is so much at stake.’

‘So you’ve said, my darling. Often.’

‘Susan is such a dear, she deserves to do well, and Barbara is shaping up nicely too, don’t you think?’ Mrs Foster didn’t sound convinced. They both knew Vivian was by far the prettiest of the three. Mrs Foster now despaired of the fact. It was horrifying to think that no good would come of it, only trouble.