“We could easily work it out. I think if she saw him kissing you . . .” She turned round and caught Gladys’ expression. “Oh, doesn’t he? Well, you could make him; anybody can make a man. The thing is, Janet must be here and watching. I’d have to arrange that.”

“That would mean you being here when Janet is. You never are, and Donald being about and all that.”

“How about a Sunday? Couldn’t you ask us to tea or something?”

“It would look a bit queer when she’s here all the week.” She thought a moment, then an idea lit her face. “Iris has a birthday soon.”

Sheila turned round.

“That’s the idea! A party, and you’ll fix the kissing, and I’ll fix that Janet’s watching.”

“I suppose I will.” Gladys’ voice was doubtful.

Sheila stretched herself.

“’Course you will.” She laid the letter on the table. “I’ll be up tomorrow to know what’s in that.”

“He doesn’t always tell me.”

“Well, you’ve eyes, read it.” Sheila lounged towards the door. “Actually, plotting things is rather fun. I’m looking forward to Iris’ birthday.”

Section 13

Janet had never before spent a whole summer in the country. Every day it seemed to her there was a new and lovely change. The fields round the cottage flamed into flower. The scent of the beans was intoxicating.

“And it’s ludicrous, darling,” she said to Maggie, “to think that for years we’ve lived in a pokey house in a smug little street, paying more rent than we can afford, and now, for ten shillings a week, we’ve every luxury, and you lie in a deck-chair laid out like a lettuce, with a field of golden mustard one side of you, and crimson clover the other.”

“Ten shillings!” Maggie agreed with a satisfied sigh. “As long as I live here I shall go on marvelling at the cheapness of rents in the country.”