Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

“Oh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

“I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.”

Megan nodded.

“That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

“My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.”

I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.

“But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.

“Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.” She laughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.”

“I can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.”

“Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Symmington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

“My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try and learn shorthand and typing.”

The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:

“I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?”

“A dance?” Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. “Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.”

“I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.”

“Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up—Oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.”