He knew himself to be a success with young people: he could spin yarns and imitate animals by the hour, and tell graphically of life in the East, bearing his descriptions out with photograph albums. He found that he need never want for young society; girls seemed to take to him naturally. He did not care for young married women, while widows depressed him – poor little souls. On this occasion, the capitulation of Sydney Warren had been a particular triumph. She walked before him with her characteristic quick step, a little out of time with the others – her hands pushed deep down into the pockets of her jersey. It was true that in the glimpse he had had of her face she had not looked merry and that her back now did little to correct that impression. But if so, Mr Lee-Mittison thought, a jolly day in the hills would be all the better for her.

The five girls had been all rather silent, but suddenly Eileen Lawrence burst into song; a chant in tune with their marching:

I had a good home that I left – left – left.

Now don’t you think I was right – right – right?

Me father was drunk, so I packed me trunk,

And I left – left – left—

‘Oh, get into step, Sydney!’

‘Really, Eileen!’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison, smiling with gratification at this burst of high spirits but glancing up at the villa windows under which they were passing. The Lawrences were such dear girls, Herbert loved them so, but she did hope they were not going to be too rowdy.

‘This feels like school again,’ said Eileen. ‘Left – left – left.’

‘I can’t think what one would do,’ observed Veronica, ‘if one’s father really were drunk.’

‘Doctors daren’t——’

Two other girls, a pair of pale Miss Bransomes, giggled ecstatically.

‘Specially Dad,’ continued Eileen. ‘But as far as I know Dad’s never killed anybody.’

‘Oh, Eileen!’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison.

‘I dare say,’ said Veronica, ‘that if we pretended to everybody here that Dad did drink everybody here would believe us. They’re a cheery crowd.’

‘Not a very kind joke, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison, pink with diffidence.

James Milton, in whose late parish most of the people had been elderly, looked with interest at these modern girls. Sydney, turning round suddenly, caught him watching them all with pleased curiosity, and felt as his eye lingered hopefully on her that he was expecting a further contribution, still more picturesque, from herself. She was silent sardonically, partly to disappoint him, partly because she never felt in line with the Lawrences, and partly because she was self-conscious and felt stiff and clumsy at this sort of ragging.