‘Now just you do as I say, sir. I’ve got Brother Abel’s velveteens as will fit you nicely. I always keep spare clothes here for my brothers. You needn’t mind changing your trousers in front of me. I don’t take no notice. I’m too used to men being wet through and dirty for that.’

So Jonathan changed obediently into Abel Wootton’s corduroys, and very much more comfortable they were than his own snow-soaked garments. The swept path to the College, although only a couple of feet wide, was heaven after the ploughing uphill walk he had had after leaving the stable courtyard at the foot of his own hill. He was grateful to Miss Wootton, and regretted that he had ever referred to her in private as a bossy old cat.

All was well at the College. He found Miss Hughes and the lecturer for Physical Training taking their ease in front of a great open fire. One was nursing the College cat, the other was doing some embroidery. He stayed long enough to be assured that there was plenty of food in the house, including tinned milk, that bread could be baked in the College oven, and that neither of the ladies was in the least dismayed at the prospect of being snowed up. The students were due back in three days’ time, but Miss Hughes was hoping that the snow would be melted by then.

She followed Jonathan’s glance out of the window at the leaden sky, and shrugged and laughed.

‘We must do what we can,’ she said, comfortably. ‘What is not to be won’t be. There is no sense in worrying. If I know the students, they will get here somehow, luggage or no luggage. I shall do what I can with my car, but it won’t be much, in this.’

She gave Jonathan some rum and lemon, for which he was grateful, and then she began to talk about the ghost. Miss Bagthorpe, who turned out to be a jolly, bouncing sort of person, rather like a solid rubber ball in human dress, expressed the opinion that to see a ghost meant death. Jonathan and Miss Hughes debated this point with her, and the argument went merrily until it was time for Jonathan to go.

Miss Wootton had dried his clothes but nothing was scorched. He did not know how she had managed to dry them in the time, and said as much. On impulse, he suddenly added:

‘I say, Miss Wootton, I know you can keep your mouth shut. Who, in the village, is cranky enough to write me an immoral sort of letter?’

‘That Mrs La-di-dah that does for Mr Fullalove,’ Miss Wootton promptly replied. ‘Nobody of these parts would do it.’