Because the world was flaunting colour Janet abandoned her severe frock. It was ridiculous, she decided, to wander about in dark blue stuffiness. Out came her short-sleeved linens and cottons. She had always been fond of dressmaking, and in the days before the war she had prepared each year for her fortnight’s summer holiday by making herself at least two new dresses. In peacetime a lot of these she would have considered shabby, but now, when old clothes showed patriotism, they looked downright smart. They needed altering, of course. Like practically everybody else, she had got thinner since the war started, and as well the length was wrong. Every evening when she got back from the farm she was either stitching or pressing something to wear tomorrow. Sheila eyed these activities with amusement, but she could not resist taking an interest. She might have made a bargain with Gladys, but that did not stop her helping Janet; after all, the hotter the fight the more fun to watch, and if there was a way in which she could help Janet it was over clothes. Sheila was no needlewoman, but a most expert buyer. Her eye grasped in a second where a lift would improve a line, where a coloured belt would make the drab into the smart. Janet dressed with taste and charm, but she did not put line in its place of importance. Sheila studied each frock as Janet brought it out.

“Of course you must have those shoulders padded; when they aren’t they look sloppy. If you took away that bloused look and made that fit it would be a different frock.”

Sheila herself on hot days had discarded frocks. She had a lemon yellow sun-suit, very brief flared shorts and a brassiere top held in place by straps crossed over her back. She looked delicious, but she worried Maggie.

“I do wish you wouldn’t go about naked; country people aren’t used to it and I’m sure they’re shocked.”

“Very silly of them,” Sheila retorted. “Actually, these are exactly like some that I saw Judy Garland wearing in a photograph, and I should think anyone would be glad to see anyone looking like Judy Garland.”

Janet laughed.

“I don’t believe anybody here has ever heard of her. Come here, Sheila, and pin this on me.”

Janet’s blossoming-out did not pass unnoticed at the farm. Iris, with a child’s tactlessness, usually waited until mealtimes to mention her clothes.

“I think Janet looks simply lovely, don’t you, Daddy? Daddy, don’t you think that’s the absolutely prettiest of all Janet’s frocks?”

Donald would answer non-committally, but his eyes would run over Janet before he answered, and the look in them was not non-committal at all. Janet could not help feeling pleased because he so obviously enjoyed looking at her, but she wished the scrutiny need not have taken place in front of Gladys.