‘Lucia and Mr Georgie have sent such lovely Christmas presents to everybody,’ she said. ‘I felt quite ashamed of myself for only having given them threepenny cards.’

‘How sweet of them,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What were they?’

‘A beautiful box of hard chocolates for me,’ said Diva. ‘And a great pot of caviare for Susan, and an umbrella for the Padre – his blew inside out in the wind yesterday – and –’

‘And this beautiful pâté for me,’ interrupted Elizabeth, grasping the nettle, for it was obvious that Diva had guessed. ‘I was just going to tell you.’

Diva knew that was a lie, but it was no use telling Elizabeth so, because she knew it too, and she tactfully changed the subject.

‘I shall have to do my exercises three times today after such a lovely lunch,’ she said, as Elizabeth began slicing the turkey. But that was not a well-chosen topic, for subjects connected with Lucia might easily give rise to discord and she tried again and again and again, bumping, in her spinning-top manner, from one impediment to another.

‘Major Benjy can play the scale of C with his right hand’ – (No, that wouldn’t do). ‘What an odd voice Susan’s got: she sang an Italian song the other day at’ – (Worse and worse). ‘I sent two pictures to the winter exhibition’ – (Worse if possible: there seemed to be no safe topic under the sun). ‘A terrific gale, isn’t it? There’ll be three days of tremendous high tides for the wind is heaping them up. I should not wonder if the road by Grebe –’ (she gave it up: it was no use) – ‘isn’t flooded tomorrow.’

Elizabeth behaved like a perfect lady. She saw that Diva was doing her best to keep off disagreeable subjects on Christmas Day, but there were really no others. All topics led to Lucia.

‘I hope not,’ she said, ‘for with all the field-paths soaked from the rain it is my regular walk just now. But not very likely, dear, for after the last time that the road was flooded, they built the bank opposite – opposite that house much higher.’

They talked for quite a long while about gales and tides and dykes in complete tranquillity. Then the proletarian diversions of Boxing Day seemed safe.

‘There’s a new film tomorrow at the Picture Palace about tadpoles,’ said Elizabeth. ‘So strange to think they become toads: or is it frogs? I think I must go.’

‘Lucia’s giving a Christmas tree for the choirboys in the evening, in that great kitchen of hers,’ said Diva.

‘How kind!’ said Elizabeth hastily, to show she took no offence.