‘Yes, indeed,’ she said. ‘My little sale-room was soon as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. But I mustn’t monopolise you, dear, or I shall be lynched. There’s a whole queue of people waiting to get a word with you. How I shall enjoy the tableaux! Looking forward to them so!’

She sidled off into the crowd. There were those dreadful old wretches from the workhouse, snuffy old things, some of them smoking pipes on her lawn and scattering matches, and being served with tea by Irene and the Padre’s curate.

‘So pleased to see you all here,’ she said, ‘sitting in my garden and enjoying your tea. I must pick a nice nosegay for you to take back home. How de do, Mr Sturgis. Delighted you could come and help to entertain the old folks for us. Good afternoon, Mr Wyse; yes, my little garden is looking nice, isn’t it? Susan, dear! Have you noticed my bed of delphiniums? I must give you some seed. Oh, there is the town crier ringing his bell! I suppose that means we must take our places for the tableaux. What a good stage! I hope the posts will not have made very big holes in my lawn. Oh, one of those naughty choirboys is hovering about my fig tree. I cannot allow that.’

She hurried off to stop any possibility of such depredation, and had made some telling allusions to the eighth commandment when on a second peal of the town crier’s bell, the procession of mummers came down the steps of the garden-room and advancing across the lawn disappeared behind the stage. Poor Major Benjy (so weak of him to allow himself to be dragged into this sort of thing) looked a perfect guy in his crown (who could he be meant for?) and as for Diva – Then there was Georgie (Drake indeed!), and last of all Queen Elizabeth with her train held up by two choirboys. Poor Lucia! Not content with a week of mumming at Riseholme she had to go on with her processions and dressings-up here. Some people lived on limelight.