Really, his thoughts were the thoughts of a madman. A peaceful scene. A tea set. The varying colours of the Harlequin cups. He looked at the white meerschaum pipe lying against the red of the cup. Beryl Gilliatt said something to Timothy. Timothy nodded, got up and went off towards the house. Beryl removed some empty plates from the table, adjusted a chair or two, murmured something to Roland, who went across and offered a frosted cake to Dr Horton.

Mr Satterthwaite watched her. He had to watch her. The sweep of her sleeve as she passed the table. He saw a red cup get pushed off the table. It broke on the iron feet of a chair. He heard her little exclamation as she picked up the bits. She went to the tea tray, came back and placed on the table a pale blue cup and saucer. She replaced the meerschaum pipe, putting it close against it. She brought the teapot and poured tea, then she moved away.

The table was untenanted now. Inez also had got up and left it. Gone to speak to her grandfather. ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘Something’s going to happen. What’s going to happen?’

A table with different coloured cups round, and–yes, Timothy, his red hair glowing in the sun. Red hair glowing with that same tint, that attractive sideways wave that Simon Gilliatt’s hair had always had. Timothy, coming back, standing a moment, looking at the table with a slightly puzzled eye, then going to where the meerschaum pipe rested against the pale blue cup.

Inez came back then. She laughed suddenly and she said, ‘Timothy, you’re drinking your tea out of the wrong cup. The blue cup’s mine. Yours is the red one.’

And Timothy said, ‘Don’t be silly, Inez, I know my own cup. It’s got sugar in it and you won’t like it. Nonsense. This is my cup. The meerschaum’s up against it.’

It came to Mr Satterthwaite then. A shock. Was he mad? Was he imagining things? Was any of this real?

He got up. He walked quickly towards the table, and as Timothy raised the blue cup to his lips, he shouted.

‘Don’t drink that!’ he called. ‘Don’t drink it, I say.’

Timothy turned a surprised face. Mr Satterthwaite turned his head. Dr Horton, rather startled, got up from his seat and was coming near.

‘What’s the matter, Satterthwaite?’

‘That cup. There’s something wrong about it,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Don’t let the boy drink from it.’

Horton stared at it. ‘My dear fellow–’

‘I know what I’m saying. The red cup was his,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘and the red cup’s broken. It’s been replaced with a blue one. He doesn’t know the red from blue, does he?’

Dr Horton looked puzzled. ‘D’you mean–d’you mean–like Tom?’