For a moment or two his pen worked slowly, conscious of the formation of each letter, as though the two ladies had been leaning over his shoulder; then he settled himself down on his elbows and his pen flew. He stuck out his long legs at either side of the writing-table, which was small and rickety, a rubber-shod heel tapped the floor noiselessly; he gave both ladies the impression of being a person of affairs.

‘I do wonder,’ thought Mrs Lee-Mittison, ‘whether he will ever be a bishop … I do wish he would cut off his moustache; I’m sure it gives people the wrong impression. If he were a bishop he would have to. Perhaps if he were married he would, too. If I were married to him …’

Mrs Lee-Mittison, who was not otherwise immodest, often married herself imaginatively to men she took an interest in, then reviewed the possibilities of such a union. ‘I would do something for his hair at the back,’ she thought. ‘I am certain that is accidental baldness, not hereditary. If only it were to be taken in time …’ The lady with the wool embroidery opened her mouth: a torrent of conversation seemed to be coming. Mrs Lee-Mittison held up an admonitory knitting-needle. ‘Hsssh,’ said she, and the lady with the embroidery moved off haughtily to the other end of the lounge. Milton, towards whom she glanced solicitously, made no sign; he had missed this by-play. He blotted one sheet with such force that the writing-table trembled and began another.

Mr Lee-Mittison came downstairs and, sitting down carefully, reached out for the newspaper. Its folds were by now so immaculate that it undid with the suddenness of a pocket-map. Every time a door opened and shut he looked over the top of the paper; he did not say anything, but always stared in the same way, quite impartially. Nobody was allowed to feel that their coming in and out did not matter; he did not challenge what they were doing, but liked to be sure that they had some good reason for doing it and were not entirely irresponsible.

‘Here,’ he said to his wife, ‘is Miss Sydney. Good morning, Miss Sydney.’

‘Good morning, Miss Warren,’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison, who was at pains to waylay anybody in whom Herbert might be interested.

‘Good morning,’ said Sydney, startled, looking as though she had expected to find the lounge crowded and to push her way through it.

‘You’re in early, you know,’ said Mr Lee-Mittison; ‘you must have miscalculated. It’s seven minutes past twelve. What have you done with Mrs Kerr and the boy?’