But Cassy’s interest had now swung to the Greek gods striding out in their whites. ‘Here they come! Now, who have we here?’ Under cover of their charming, straw brims the girls studied the players. ‘I say, what a spread. A Finch-Hatton, a couple of Darnleys – don’t get your hopes up. Too grand for our sort – and all those Wykeham-Martins. Six sons in that family, plenty to choose from. Any take your fancy?’

Mary smiled in reply. Perhaps it was down to the year’s difference between them, but she did not yet share Cassy’s obsession with gentlemen. And, anyway, there was nothing like a shaved head for the quelling of romantic notions. With all that now behind her, Mary could only look on objectively; cast a purely dispassionate eye. In which case, it then became perfectly obvious all were mere shadows set next to Ned Knight. That charming chaos of hair, the joy on that face – even those close-cut, white britches were oddly … Mary turned quickly away, twisted her parasol and, instead, took to the study of the other spectators.

‘And whom do we have here?’ Mary tilted her head to an unknown group near the pavilion and, in particular, the cynosure in pale lemon muslin. The lady was vibrant; her many gentlemen friends were enraptured. Even with the distance between them, Mary could still come to judgement. ‘She has one of those musical laughs, don’t you think? You don’t even have to hear it, to tell.’

‘Without doubt. How does one learn it, I wonder? It’s definitely the type of thing we ought to be practising … Watch them all dance on attendance.’

‘Slaves, to a man.’ Mary was riveted. ‘Another capital flirt, I should say.’

‘Lucky her. I bet she will never have her heart broken. Gosh, I do still mourn Miss Atkinson, don’t you?’

Mary sighed. ‘Poor, dear Miss A. Nothing’s the same, now she has left us.’

‘She would have shown us the ropes. I doubt poor Fan knows the first thing about it. Dear sister and all that, could not be sweeter, yet I fear there are some crucial areas in which we are being most frightfully let down.’

At that moment, one of the slaves stood, waved to the girls and strode over to join them.

Cassy sang out: ‘George, darling! Are you not playing?’

‘Waiting to go in,’ George Knight replied, with a quick swing of his bat. ‘Something up with your voice, Cass? You sound awful peculiar.’

Both girls fell into unladylike giggles. ‘Oh, Georgy. We so long to flirt, but we don’t have a clue! Will you be our teacher? One couldn’t help but notice you there, at the feet of an expert. Who is she, by the way? Do we know her at all?’