“He’s doing rather well, Uncle!” Redfyre objected. “I was quite envious. I’m fond of cousin Hugh. I’ve always found him dependable and—yes—clever. He’s a good man to have in your corner. Really, he’s not as bad as he paints himself. And perhaps the girls intuitively understood that.”

“I’ll tell you what the girls intuitively understood, my boy, and that’s the implications of his gleaming new car parked in pride of place on my carriage sweep. Oh yes, I think those young ladies were aware of what he had to offer. I noticed that they accepted with alacrity when he asked them if he might drive them back to their homes. In his speed model, open-topped tourer Bentley. In British Racing Green. Wouldn’t have minded a spin myself.”

“A stinging reminder that all I have to offer in the way of transport is a ride in a borrowed police car. An old Riley with prisoner restraints in the back seats and general smell of Saturday night’s vomit.” Redfyre grinned. “Or, if she’s a fresh air fiend, a precarious seat on the crossbar of my bike.”

Hetty chuckled. “The girl who would rise to that challenge is the girl for you, Johnny! But Gerald’s right. When it comes to choosing a life partner, most young women are impressed by a Bentley. It’s only natural.”

Gerald grunted. “More fool them! Tricky business, embarking on the marriage stakes. Not many make it to the last fence. Never mind looks and cash, young women ought to be hunting down a bloke who can make them laugh. We’re a long time married. Ask your aunt! Without the stimulus of my daily quips, she’d have slipped her moorings years ago.”

“True,” Hetty agreed after some thought. “Though it was Gerald’s detailed knowledge of Weatherbys Stud Book and his fabled collection of grape scissors that proved irresistible. Well, that’s two more to cross off my list of possible girls about Cambridge.”

Redfyre decided to head his aunt off the unwelcome subject of his continued failure to do his patriotic duty and marry one of the many women left bereft by the recent war. But he would use the bait of gossip to turn her head towards a more useful discussion.

“I met a strange girl today, Aunt. She’s the reason I was late for lunch. I wondered if you might know anything of her. Her name would be a good place to start. I don’t suppose your university acquaintances extend into the rather remote fastness of Jude’s?”

“I knew the last master quite well,” Hetty replied. “I have yet to meet the new one. Dr. Cornelius Wells. A classicist, I believe. Go on, though I can’t imagine why you’d be talking about a female and Jude’s in the same sentence.”