“Well, really, Janet!” said Maggie as the Sheldons disappeared out of sight over the turn of the field. “Whatever’s the matter with you? It’s high time I saw something of you. You’ve picked up the manners of a bear living by yourself in London.”

“You don’t understand . . . He’s funny about money . . . I thought he said that about my frock to get a sort of kick at me.”

“Bless me, child, your liver must be out of order. I think you’d better have a glass of salts each morning for a day or two.”

Janet, wretchedly conscious that this time Donald had not meant anything except niceness by what he said, walked on in silence. “I just don’t know what’s happening to me,” she thought miserably. “I seem to care so much what he says; it’s that makes me behave like an ass.”

The colonel was lying in his chaise-longue reading a Sunday paper when Miller showed Maggie and Janet into the garden. He did not see them until they were beside his chair. He threw down his paper and made a move to get up, but Maggie put out her hand to stop him.

“Don’t get up. I know what those chairs are like to get out of. I haven’t one myself, but Janet makes me put my feet up, and I tell her it keeps me in a constant state of jump in case someone knocks on our door, for you can’t get up quickly however you try.” She pulled a basket chair towards her and sat down. “It’s hot today. I’m glad to get off my feet.”

The colonel settled back against his cushions. His eyes twinkled at Janet.

“Your mother’s a person who gets her own way, I can see. If you go down to the bottom of the garden you’ll find Barbara and the doctor.” He turned to Maggie. “Our doctor feller, because he can cut insides about, thinks he knows everything. I’ve a very special loganberry, did very well last year, but the doctor wanted to prune it, and keeps lookin’ at it now hopin’ it will go wrong because I wouldn’t let him.”

Maggie held out her parcel.

“I’ve made you one of my milk jellies. Janet was telling me how much you disliked milk.” She lowered her voice. “There’s just a drop of sherry in this, not enough to hurt you, but it makes all the difference.”

The colonel looked at the parcel without enthusiasm.

“It’s very good of you to bother. Disgustin’ stuff, milk. That damn cook of mine, Mincin’, takes all our sawbones says as gospel. I know all he says about milk, I tell her, but forget some of it. But will she? Nor every hour or two there’s Miller standing beside me bleating like an old sheep, ‘Here’s your milk, sir.’”