“Well, that’s over,” said Charlot, raising her black hat until it perched on her grey curls and tipped over her nose. “I must say that we do look a collection of old black crows.”

“We always turn rather peculiar at funerals,” said Frid. “I suppose it’s because we all wear each other’s clothes. Where did you get that hat, Mummy?”

“It’s Nanny’s. I haven’t got a black. And these are Nanny’s gloves. Aren’t they frightful?”

“Really, it’s rather as if we were dressed up for another charade,” said Stephen. “Robin’s the only girl among you who doesn’t look p-peculiar.” And perhaps remembering that Roberta’s black clothes were rather tragically her own, Stephen hurried on. “Why didn’t you all b-buy yourselves funeral garments, darling?”

“Much too expensive,” said Charlot. “And that reminds me. You’ve all got to pay the greatest attention. I’m going to speak seriously to you.”

“Immy,” said Lord Charles suddenly, “where is Aunt Kit?”

“For pity’s sake, Charlie, don’t tell me Aunt Kit is lost again.”

“No, Mummy,” said Patch. “She’s just ‘disappeared’ into 26.”

“Well, you know what happened the last time she did that.”

“Talking about hats,” said Frid, “did you ever see anything to equal hers?”

“We are not talking about hats,” said Charlot seriously. “We are talking about money.”

“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearthrug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.

“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don’t you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let’s face it; we’re poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta’s astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We’re going to be very hard up for a long time.”

“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”

“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.

“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you are so sweet. But in the meantime…” She broke off. “What are you doing, Mike?”

“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.

“To whom, darling?”

“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”

“What about?” asked Colin.

“Oh, something. As a matter of fac’ I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”

“Millstones, darling,” said Henry.

“You’re wrong,” said Charlot. “Hung round our necks like the upper and nether milestones is the full expression. You’re thinking of the mills of God. Charlie, how much do you suppose we’ll have when everything has been paid up?”

“Really, darling, I don’t quite know. Old Rattisbon will tell us, of course.”

“Well, at a guess.”

“I really—well, I suppose it should be about thirty thousand.”