Sunday afternoon was hot and thundery. Janet, with Maggie carrying the milk jelly, walked slowly down to the farm road. Janet had put on a flowered linen frock. Her hair, as it was not a school day, was free of pins. Maggie, walking behind her, thought how charming she looked. Already the country air was doing her good; there was a faint golden tan over her face, and the dawning of pink in her cheeks. “She’s not a patch on Sheila, of course,” decided Maggie, “but she does look nice, bless her!”

Janet glanced back at her mother.

“Do you think Sheila really didn’t mind not being asked? The colonel gave the invitation and it was really to you. I’m only a make-weight. I never thought about Sheila.”

“She doesn’t like being out of anything, and she particularly dislikes the Haines cultivating us, because she thinks they are stuck up, but except for that she’s far happier reading a film paper.”

Janet felt her heart give a thump.

“Oh, bother! Look, there’s Mr. Sheldon and Iris.”

“Really, dear, what a tone to take! I think he’s such a nice man, and she’s a dear little girl.”

“I know, but I see them all the week, and I don’t want to run into them every five minutes when I’ve got a day off.”

Iris, who had been skipping down the farm road beside her father, had seen Janet and Maggie and came tearing up the field track towards them, shouting unintelligibly as she ran. She flung herself panting at Janet.

“Janet, me and Daddy were just going our Sunday walk. Usually Gladys comes, but today she’s got a sick headick; at least that’s what she says it is, but when I told Ben he said that her trouble was that her eyes were fuming green.” She broke off and held out her hand to Maggie. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Brain. Very pleasant weather we’re having for the time of year.”

Maggie kissed the child.

“Well, I don’t know about that. I rather expect it to be nice in June.”

Iris led the way along the track towards her father.

“Mrs. Honeywell says that it’s a good thing when passing the time of day to refer to the weather, as it’s not a subject where offence can be taken where none’s intended.” She raised her voice and shouted to her father. “I was just telling Janet about Gladys’ sick headick . . .”

“Headache,” Janet corrected.

Iris shook her head.

“Not what she’s got isn’t. Everybody calls it a headick. Me and Daddy are quite pleased, really. We like it when we can walk alone.”