When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she was already deep in the Personal Column.

“Good morning, dear,” said Mrs. Swettenham. “The Smedleys are selling their Daimler. 1935—that’s rather a long time ago, isn’t it?”

Her son grunted, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers, sat down at the table and opened the Daily Worker which he propped up against the toast rack.

“Bull mastiff puppies,” read out Mrs. Swettenham. “I really don’t know how people manage to feed big dogs nowadays—I really don’t … H’m, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again. I could tell her it’s just a waste of time advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only a box number—that’s quite fatal—I could have told her so—servants simply insist on knowing where they are going. They like a good address … False teeth—I can’t think why false teeth are so popular. Best prices paid … Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap … Here’s a girl wants an ‘Interesting post—Would travel.’ I dare say! Who wouldn’t?… Dachshunds… I’ve never really cared for dachshunds myself—I don’t mean because they’re German, because we’ve got over all that—I just don’t care for them, that’s all.—Yes, Mrs. Finch?”

The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged velvet beret.

“Good morning, Mum,” said Mrs. Finch. “Can I clear?”

“Not yet. We haven’t finished,” said Mrs. Swettenham. “Not quite finished,” she added ingratiatingly.

Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs. Finch sniffed, and withdrew.

“I’ve only just begun,” said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:

“I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs. Finch doesn’t like it at all.”

“I don’t see what my political views have to do with Mrs. Finch.”

“And it isn’t,” pursued Mrs. Swettenham, “as though you were a worker. You don’t do any work at all.”

“That’s not in the least true,” said Edmund indignantly. “I’m writing a book.”

“I meant real work,” said Mrs. Swettenham. “And Mrs. Finch does matter. If she takes a dislike to us and won’t come, who else could we get?”

“Advertise in the Gazette,” said Edmund, grinning.

“I’ve just told you that’s no use. Oh dear me, nowadays unless one has an old Nannie in the family, who will go into the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.”

“Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to have provided me with one. What were you thinking about?”

“You had an ayah, dear.”

“No foresight,” murmured Edmund.

Mrs. Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.

“Second hand Motor Mower for sale. Now I wonder … Goodness, what a price!… More dachshunds … ‘Do write or communicate desperate Woggles.’ What silly nicknames people have … Cocker Spaniels… Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood every word you said to her … Sheraton sideboard for sale. Genuine family antique. Mrs. Lucas, Dayas Hall … What a liar that woman is! Sheraton indeed …!”