‘I don’t know. I think I shall wait until I get to London,’ Mrs Bradley replied.

‘Oh, no. I want to go and choose my books with you. We can’t go while the snow’s so deep, that’s one thing. I wonder what cook will manage for lunch? I do hope nothing weird and wonderful.’

To the surprise of everybody, the postman contrived to make his way to the house in the early afternoon. No one had expected him, for the snow began again at just after one o’clock, and fell silently and steadily until four.

However, at just after a quarter past two, when Mrs Bradley had gone up to her room to write letters which might or might not get posted that day, Sidney Blott, son of the postmistress and a postman in his own right, ploughed his way up the hill and delivered his cargo of letters, belated Christmas cards and presents.

He apologized for not having come in the morning, but the post, it appeared, was late because the road was almost impassable for the Post Office van. By the time the van had completed its journey, Sidney’s mother had suggested that he wait until the morning, and the argument between Mrs Blott and her son had lasted until after the mid-day meal. Sidney had won by remaining silent until his mother had galloped herself tired, as he explained.

‘Well, I rather agree with your mother, Sidney,’ said Deborah, dragging him inside the hall door. ‘Still, as you’ve been good enough to come, you’d better have something to warm you.’

‘Beer, then, your ladyship,’ said Sidney, ‘if so be as his lordship has got any.’

The original owner of the estate had been a peer of the realm, and it had proved impossible to persuade Sidney and his mother to address Jonathan and Deborah by any other titles than the ones now loyally bestowed.

‘But our letters and parcels come addressed to Mr or Mrs Bradley,’ Deborah had observed. The postmistress had agreed.

‘But,’ said she, ‘the old house always had a lord and a lady in it, and I’ve always voted Conservative and always shall.’

‘Then, by rights, you ought to call Miss Hughes, up at the College, My Lady,’ Deborah had pointed out.

‘Oh, no, certainly not,’ said Mrs Blott decisively. ‘She’s only a kind of housekeeper, when all’s said and done. She has to work for her living, same as I do.’

‘But so does my husband, and so did I until I married him.’

The postmistress was not to be persuaded, and re-opened the subject one day before Christmas when Jonathan was in her shop.

‘And all of them racketeering young school teachers!’ she said firmly. Even Jonathan felt bound to protest at this description.