I’m still trying to work out Ned and Lulu – although the Revd Wyldbore-Smith was surprisingly forthcoming on the subject. He let slip that the old Bryanston money was running out, the GodLitFest is eating up capital and there is no new money. Lulu wants to send the twins to Marlborough, because of the polo, of course, but also because the right sort of children go there, i.e. Otis Ferry (the Countryside Alliance’s pin-up and Burberry house model) and Kate Middleton (Prince William’s squeeze), he went there, not to mention one of the princesses Eugenie and Beatrice, he couldn’t remember which. And, apparently, in his palmier years, Ned (who I have to admit is annoyingly attractive, with lazily amused eyes and thick rumpled brown hair and broad shoulders) was as prodigal with his forebear’s resources as he is now frugal with the planet’s.

As for Lulu (I didn’t get this from the Revd, but from Rose), she hasn’t eaten anything for years, does yoga with a guru, and once confessed (again I had this from Rose) that she was ‘a secret non-drinker’, which was a pretty brave thing to admit – I mean, not in New York or LA but in Honeyborne, where public displays of sobriety are greeted with about the same level of enthusiasm as an outbreak of Ebola virus.

‘With Celia in residence, I think life’s been a bit difficult for Lulu,’ the Revd said, as he drank from his water glass, as if in solidarity with Lulu. ‘We must make allowances for her, and not judge her too harshly.’ I wanted to ask him on what we would be judging her, but Ned’s windmill intervention prevented me.

At the start of the evening, I would have said that if I had to go to bed with one of the men in the room who was not my husband – of course, not that I would – the order would have been 1. Ned Bryanston, 44, 2. Jesse Marlon Bryanston, 22 (or in reverse order – not fussy) and 3. the Master, even if he is terribly seedy and only speaks about women in veterinary terms, and roars to Biddy, ‘Have you got Frisky, Bids? I’m just getting Jiggy in the Land Rover,’ and so on.

But I have to confess that, after the evening, Granville – who I had previously thought had all the charm of an Albanian people-trafficker – was moving up the inside lane like Jensen Button.

I liked the way he told me he was pleased we’d moved to Honeyborne because we brought some ‘Notting Hill edge’ to the village, even though it wasn’t true, and Notting Hill now is about as edgy as treacle sponge, but still. I liked the way he stood up to Ned.