It was one of the serious moments in life, which the scent of roses attempted to intoxicate.

After lunch Hessell Mortlock started back on the long drive in the bottle-green Riley, and Daddy went out at once, and they forgot they had stopped seeing him.

‘Well!’ Mrs Scudamore let out her breath.

She was glad to be able to put her feet up, only figuratively, that is.

‘I think I ought to tell you some news,’ Anthea began, quietly, though soon. ‘Mr Mortlock asked me to marry him.’

‘That is certainly news!’ said her mother, arranging her pink chiffon sling. ‘And what did you answer?’

‘I said I’d accept,’ said Anthea.

‘Oh, darling!’ cried Mrs Scudamore.

And at once they were together. They had never been closer. The mother’s scent, far subtler than anything out of a bottle, arose from ritual and several layers of conviction. It was what the daughter had always known, and although she loved, she did also, momentarily, envy this scent of permanence, which made of her mother a reality, a force.

‘I hope I am not making a mistake!’ the girl almost cried in her stifled position. ‘But I think I can do the best by him. I do respect him! I do love him!’

‘He is a distinguished man,’ Mrs Scudamore said. ‘Yes, I am glad, Anthea,’ she added more thoughtfully. ‘So many people lavish money – and love – on their children, only to have it thrown back in their faces.’

Anthea recovered herself from her mother’s embrace, and blew her nose, which had grown soggy.

‘I don’t like what is nasty,’ she admitted.

Her mother patted her hand.

‘I expect we shall soon hear from Mr Mortlock himself,’ she said. ‘He is the kind of man who respects formalities. Then we can go ahead with arrangements for the wedding.’

11

Mrs Scudamore arranged for Mr Mortlock to return soon, to a ceremony which, without being ostentatious, was much talked about in nicer circles. Mrs Scudamore was lucky enough to have got Philippa Canning and Charmian Reid for bridesmaids in spite of the fact that neither of them was a close friend of Anthea’s. Lady Reid, in addition, gave a Doulton tea service.

Mr Mortlock stepped from the plane on arrival looking, not exactly years younger – so alert, Mrs Scudamore put it; one saw how he could not help being a success in business. The face of the man she had begun not to know made Anthea suddenly shy. But he was all kindness, all attention, offering his arm on the way to the car.

‘The little lady isn’t in need of support,’ Mr Mortlock joked, ‘but an arm is always cosier.’

By coincidence, on arrival at the house, the bridegroom’s present was waiting – he had sent it by rail because of the weight – a real crocodile dressing-case with silver fittings. She kissed his cheek, so closely shaven he must have seen to it on the plane, and finished it off with something which smelled of camphor. The texture of the skin was closer than she had expected from the look. Anthea Scudamore drew in her breath for the situation which had taken hold of her with such inevitability. She might have found confidence by fiddling with her engagement ring, but was not wearing it yet – one which had belonged to Hessell’s mother, it was being re-set in more up-to-date style.