For a moment she wondered whether that looked vulgar. She was sorry she had underlined it.

But . . . (she continued bravely) . . . the complications do increase. Since his ‘withdrawal’, you will remember I have taken pains to devise little routine occupations to give him an interest in life. My efforts, however, have not always been successful. My plan for him to mow the grass was perhaps an understandable failure. Charles is not mechanical, and grass is so tedious. The grass-mowing did not last for long (Norman had to resume; he is now so deaf and rude, but we are lucky, I expect, to have him). A comparatively recent ‘brain-wave’ on my part was to persuade Charles to walk up to Sarsaparilla and fetch the letters. I rented one of those amusing little private boxes, and Mrs Sugden, the post-mistress, is such a decent soul – I knew Charles to have a particular affection for her. All went well for several months, until last week my darling, tiresome son announced he was unable to continue fetching the letters! So now, if you please, the mail is once more delivered at our gate, and I must think of something fresh for Charles.

I do not doubt all this will sound trivial to anyone so far distant as Melbourne. Of course, it is something that concerns me, and I would not breathe it to another person, unless to his godmother, and you do seem to have some influence over him, Maud dear. I have always been so grateful . . .

Here Mrs Polkinghorn paused again. Funny how dowdy, simple Maud had known unexpectedly what to do in many a situation. Was it humility? Oh, but Mrs Polkinghorn had prayed for humility. She was frowning hard now, and the glass had grown unkind.

Relax.

Mrs Polkinghorn began to smile, but slackly, but spiritually, as she had learnt it.

One last wish for your restored health, dear Maud, and I am sure we shall both be thinking of you with deepest affection as we stroll amongst the blossom at ‘Wishfort’, before Harriet summons us to the birthday luncheon.

My very best love -

URSULA

P.S. If you should write to him, please do not mention any of these matters.

When she had sealed the envelope, which tasted rather nasty, Mrs Polkinghorn went in search.

Charles was sitting in the dining-room, in that big leather armchair, so hideous, but it had belonged to Dickie. Charles was reading something, or so it appeared. She could see the back of his head, the careful, straw-coloured hair, which he would arrange to cover as much as possible of that fragile dome. Sometimes the mother almost expected to see a pulse still beating in her child’s head.

‘Charles,’ she said, gently, going round, ‘you are reading.’

He was, and continued.

‘What,’ she asked, ‘are you reading, Charles?’

‘Rearing of Fowls on the Free Range System.’

His small moustache, straw-coloured once, had been dirtied by the shadow of grey.