His wife was in her hammock dangling a tightly-encased black velvet leg, a flame-coloured sleeve and a pair of enormous earrings. The cocktail tray was ready on her iron table.

‘How late you are,’ she said idly. ‘Dinner in half an hour. What have you been up to at Nunspardon?’

‘I had to see George.’

‘What about?’

‘Some business his father asked me to do.’

‘How illuminating.’

‘It was very private, my dear.’

‘How is George?’

The Colonel remembered George’s empurpled face and said: ‘Still rather upset.’

‘We must ask him to dinner. I’m learning to play golf with him tomorrow, by the way. He’s giving me some clubs. Nice, isn’t it?’

‘When did you arrange that?’

‘Just now. About twenty minutes ago,’ she said, watching him.

‘Kitty, I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘You don’t by any chance suspect me of playing you false with George, do you?’

‘Well,’ said the Colonel after a long pause, ‘are you?’

‘No.’

‘I still think it might be better not to play golf with him tomorrow.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Kitty, what have you said to George about Mark and Rose?’

‘Nothing you couldn’t have seen for yourself, darling. Rose is obviously head over heels in love with Mark.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘My good Maurice, you don’t suppose the girl is going to spend the rest of her existence doting on Daddy, do you?’

‘I wouldn’t have it for the world. Not for the world.’

‘Well, then.’

‘But I … I didn’t know … I still don’t believe …’

‘He turned up here five minutes ago looking all churned up and they’re closeted together in the drawing-room. Go and see. I’ll excuse your changing, if you like.’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ the Colonel said miserably and went indoors.

If he hadn’t been so rattled and worried he would no doubt have given some sort of warning of his approach. As it was he crossed the heavy carpet of the hall, opened the drawing-room door and discovered his daughter locked in Mark Lacklander’s arms from which embrace she was making but ineffectual attempts to escape.

3. The Valley of the Chyne

CHAPTER 3

The Valley of the Chyne

Rose and Mark behaved in the classic manner of surprised lovers. They released each other, Rose turned white and Mark red, and neither of them uttered a word.

The Colonel said: I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me,’ and made his daughter a little bow.

Rose, with a sort of agitated spontaneity, ran to him, linked her hands behind his head, and cried: ‘It had to happen some time, darling, didn’t it?’

Mark said: ‘Sir, I want her to marry me.’

‘But I won’t,’ Rose said. ‘I won’t unless you can be happy about it. I’ve told him.’

The Colonel, with great gentleness, freed himself and then put an arm round his daughter.

‘Where have you come from, Mark?’ he asked.