“It’s quite a pretty village, isn’t it?” said Sheila. “Look out of this window; that’s the Haines’ house.”

Janet turned and saw a Georgian house behind high iron gates.

“It looks very grand. She asked me to go and see her, but I shouldn’t like to go there.”

Sheila swung her foot angrily. Janet was as tiresome as ever, she thought. Always saying things to make other people feel small. She did hope she wasn’t going round saying that sort of thing in Worsingfold. People were quick enough to look down their noses at you without you going about saying you weren’t used to big houses. It was sickening Janet had come at all; she was certain to grumble and make rows, she always did. It would be a help if she could think of something to put her into a good temper before she got to the cottage. Her methods for pleasing were the same for women as for men. Her face broke into a sweet, wistful smile.

“It’s simply lovely you’ve come. I feel awfully young to be looking after Mum and everything by myself.”

Janet refrained from pointing out that Sheila was nearly twenty, and that when she herself had been that age she had been daily breading, parting with every penny she earned to lift a little of the anxiety off her mother’s shoulders, and chief provider of luxuries for which a spoilt little sister of fourteen whined. She had a fear that the dismay which she often felt at Sheila’s ways and goings-on might not be inspired simply by her dislike of affectation and fecklessness, but have a root in jealousy. She never did feel jealous, but it seemed so peculiar that she didn’t, with, as she often told herself, me so plain and Sheila so lovely, that she tried to sift each aggravated thought that Sheila inspired, to find where its roots lay. She changed the subject.

“How far is it to the cottage?”

“We turn off in a moment up the lane to the farm. Our cottage is on a sort of track across some fields. The taxi can’t go up that bit.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when, with a violent jerk, the taxi came to a stop. With the careful slowness of an old person, less sure of the behaviour of their limbs than they were, the driver climbed out. He came to the open window. He looked anxiously at Sheila.

“Would it be too much for your sister to walk from here like? That time when I drove you and your mother up to the farm, when you just come, I had a terrible time gettin’ back. Reversin’ isn’t no different to goin’ forward, that’s what my grandson said, not when you understand it, but maybe I haven’t understood it.”

Sheila made an annoyed movement, but before she could speak Janet broke in.

“Of course we’ll get out here. My suitcase isn’t so terribly heavy. If it’s too much I’ll borrow a wheelbarrow.” She opened the taxi door. “How much?”