Tea was brought on a folding table, which Nina prophesied would collapse, and immediately the midges and caterpillars made themselves felt. As Elizabeth poured out she took covert stock of Nina, and admitted, reluctantly, that she was pretty, in a vivacious way, and very appealing. Perhaps that was because she was so small and thin, and because her face was so mobile. She had strange eyes, always changing; they were attractive too, both in mischief and in gravity.

Nina fished a fly out of her cup.

“Victim number one. Luckily I’m not a vegetarian. How’s Geoffrey, Stephen?”

“He isn’t,” Stephen answered, selecting a sandwich from the dish. “How very timid cucumber can be. You bite one end, and it evacuates the sandwich hurriedly at the other end.”

“But why is Geoffrey not?” Nina demanded.

“He became Norman half-way through the book,” Stephen explained.

“And it was all torn up,” added Elizabeth.

“How drastic! Still, what a lot of things he can do now he’s Norman. Norman could fail to catch the train; Geoffrey would have to be there ten minutes before it started.”

“Exactly,” Stephen said. “As Norman he was able to jilt Caroline with perfect grace. As Geoffrey he became a cad from that moment.”

“I don’t see it a bit,” Elizabeth declared. “He’d be a cad anyway.”

“No, not at all. If you capture everyone’s sympathy you’re not a cad. Norman does, you see. Naturally.”

“Just because of his name? Stephen, how silly you are!” She said it all laughingly, but she felt that he really was silly.

“What a horrid insult!” Nina said. “Never mind, Stephen, I appreciate the true inwardness of Norman. What does Cynny think? Or doesn’t she know?”

“Of course she does. I notified the whole family in a series of telephone calls. Cynny said, Marvellous! he can murder Caroline. I hadn’t thought of that. Mater was inclined to be upset. She said, Poor dear Geoffrey! I once had a canary called Geoffrey. That revelation sealed his doom.”

Nina gave a little spurt of laughter.

“Oh, how sweet of Aunt Charmian! Something invariably reminds her of something else, delightfully irrelevant.”

Elizabeth picked up the milk-jug.

“The only sane member of the family was Anthony. He sent a telegram:—‘It leaves me cold.’ That amused me.”

“Neither you nor Anthony,” Stephen said, “has a soul. Nina, d’you remember the day mater had a tea-fight under this very tree and Bertie Tyrell withdrew to the bank and wrote a poem about introspection?”

“Oh, lord yes! And read it to Lady Ribblemere.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Nobody understood the poem; it was all dots. When Bertie got to the last line, which was ‘God! I am glad,’ Lady Ribblemere said ‘Dear me!’ in a most surprised voice.”

“Yes,” nodded Stephen, “and then she billowed over to Bertie’s wife, and said, ‘Can you tell me who is that extraordinary person?’”