“Beleaguered from every side. Middle age is Atlas with the world on his shoulders.” As John resumed the exaggerations of childhood, they laughed.

“It’s good to see you, John. It’s good to laugh.”

“Well, back to the wars,” he said, picking up the tray.

“How is Father really?”

“Very gentle. It sort of makes one ache.”

Then they heard the shouts, and Cathy, fifteen, pushed through the pantry swing door and rushed at Olivia.

“Aunt Olivia!” And she threw her arms round this “magnificent aunt,” as the nieces and nephews all called her because she listened to everything they said as if it really mattered, and also (perhaps) because she could be counted on for a loan if things got really desperate. “After dinner will you come for a walk with me—alone?”

“Try to. Things on your mind?”

“Sort of …”

Christina hurried past, bearing the mince pies Marianne had brought, and Olivia vanished to join the others in the big room. They had settled like a flock of starlings around Cornelius, all, it seemed, chattering at once. Christy was taking his flute out and practicing by the big window. Alan, who had suddenly shot up like a beanstalk to over six feet, though he was only eighteen, owlish in his round spectacles, sat on the sofa with quiet Dorothy, the oldest of Marianne’s children, beside him. Cathy sat on the little bench in front of the fire, and Marianne on the arm of Cornelius’s chair. John stood at the other end, sipping his sherry. Bits and pieces of conversation floated about: “We saw a deer!” “Where?” “Down by the bog.” “You’re looking splendid, Father!” “Cared for like a pasha, why shouldn’t I?”

Cornelius had got Marianne’s right hand firmly in his. It stirred him to see her, so like her mother thirty years ago—the same brilliant blue eyes flashing out under dark hair, the same high color.

“Only you’re too fat, girl,” he said.

“Middle-aged spread.”

“Middle-aged?” Cornelius laughed. “Never!”

“I’m forty-eight, like it or not.”

“Nonsense.” He would have none of that. “Even time doesn’t fly that fast!”

Christina reappeared to warn them that dinner would be served in an hour. “I’ll need help in about a half hour—minions to carry in plates. Olivia and Marianne can help me serve.”

“Yes, Mother, but first sit down for five minutes and have a glass of sherry.”

“I will,” and she sank onto the sofa between Dorothy and Alan. “Where’s Bruno? I haven’t even seen him.”

“He took the bags up.”

“People vanish in this house like animals in an ark,” Christina laughed. “Mamzelle is asleep.”

“She can’t be, with all this brouhaha,” said Christy, taking up his flute. “Shall we lead her in with a song?”

“Oh, splendid! Yes! What shall it be?”

“Where’s Comfort? We need her voice.”

“She must have gone out. Someone go and call.”