Thinking and frowning, she walked, and presently called absently: ‘Daddy, where are you? There are several things I want to ask.’

‘What’s that?’ answered Hessell Mortlock, who had been in hiding amongst his shrubs.

His expression of suspicion and astonishment increased her own feeling of shame.

‘Oh!’ she said, laughing, blushing – she had never called him that before, and rarely by any name. ‘I wasn’t thinking!’

‘What is it you want to ask?’ he demanded in ever greater suspicion.

He was afraid it might be about the lid of the lavatory bowl.

‘I forget,’ she said, and went away.

Her slip of the tongue, however, shocked her out of her unhappiness, and soon she was giving further orders to her mother.

‘If you’re going to change your frock, darling, the roast will be ready in a quarter-of-an-hour.’

Through the bars of the kitchen window she called to her husband: ‘Aren’t you going to wash-and-brush-up, dear? You know how you hate it when the mutton turns dry.’

Mrs Mortlock’s brand of reasonableness had probably come from long experience in dealing with children. But there were times, too, when she let herself go and entered into the fun of things. Then she would become a large, lolloping girl teasing and joking with her friend, who also, only incidentally, happened to be her mother.

On one occasion, for instance, they were fossicking through a cupboardful of junk which provoked a joint hilarity.

‘What’s this? Who is it?’ Mrs Scudamore asked.

‘I haven’t the vaguest!’ Mrs Mortlock replied, and giggled. ‘Unless it’s Brenda.’

They both grew giggly over the old photograph.

‘What sights we looked in those days!’ Mrs Scudamore protested. ‘Well I never! Look at that hair – the shingle! The shaven neck!’

‘I adore the kiss-curl!’

They both shrieked.

‘And the mmm -’ Mrs Scudamore roared, and could not get it out except in the end, in a tremendous rush ‘did you ever’ she screamed ‘see such a – MOUTH!’

Their eyes were staring, bursting out of the fires of mirth as they examined the passive photograph, in which the victim had attempted her timid version of the cupid’s bow.

When suddenly the two friends realized it was time they returned to their senses.

‘Oh, dear!’

Mrs Mortlock wiped her eyes.

Mrs Scudamore blew her nose.

Mrs Mortlock took the limp photograph, by instinct rather than with purpose, and shut it up in the writing-desk her mother had so much admired. She intended perhaps to do something with it – but what? – later on. Perhaps after Mummy had gone.

Mrs Scudamore, who was booked to return home that Thursday, grew sad accordingly. She said: ‘You have everything, Anthea. I only hope you are happy. I wonder whether there is anything. Whether I could advise you. I am your mother.’

‘Oh, yes, I am happy,’ Mrs Mortlock said, and sighed. ‘There is perhaps a certain matter.’

But there she hesitated because it would have embarrassed her to tell.

Mrs Scudamore thought better not press; it might be something physical.