Mrs Milton had been introduced to them all in the lounge by Mr Lee-Mittison, who commended him to their good graces with a general wave of the hand. The Lee-Mittisons always went out of their way to be pleasant to strangers, making efforts to draw them as soon as possible into the social life of the Hotel centring round Mr Lee-Mittison. They had been predisposed in Milton’s favour by the fact that he had come downstairs to breakfast and ordered an egg: this seemed to them virile. Very few people came down to breakfast, a discouraging meal to which the Lee-Mittisons by a punctual appearance and bright nods round tried in vain to impart an atmosphere. Accordingly they had buttonholed Milton and told him that he positively must join their expedition this morning; they would take no denial. Milton looked flattered and bothered. ‘As jolly a set of girls as you’ll meet anywhere,’ said Mr Lee-Mittison, winking chastely.

Milton was a big man of about forty-three with the clear, ruddy-and-white complexion of a wax model from which the moustache and expressive mouse-coloured eyebrows unconvincingly sprouted, looking darker than they were. He was long-limbed and strongly built but evidently out of training, for he began to pant and be silent sooner than any of them when they took the steep path up the side of the hill. He had intelligent, bright eyes, creased at the corners with humour, and the assured, affable, occasionally rather inane manner of the innately shy and diffident man who has never had to venture outside a society where he is secure and appreciated, and who has brought himself to believe, in spite of a deep-down protest, that such a society is the world. One felt that it should be easy to impress, affect, or discompose Mr Milton, and yet that he had seldom been impressed, affected or discomposed.

The path was cobbled; it went up glaring white beyond the edge of one’s vision, relieved only here and there by the shadow of an olive tree. After some time it intersected a road that ran high up along the side of the hill, and the party staggered a short way along the road and sat breathlessly down on the parapet. James Milton and the Lawrences took out their cigarette-cases and Milton offered his round.

Oh, you girls, you girls!’ cried Mr Lee-Mittison, ‘you do it charmingly, but how I wish that you wouldn’t!’

Sydney merely bent forward to the flame of a match that Milton was sheltering for her, but the Bransomes, a pair of pale cousins, turned paler still with dismay. They had recently arrived and had been much gratified by an invitation to the picnic; they did not care if they smoked or not, having only wished to resemble as closely as possible the Lawrences and the alarming Miss Warren. They waved the cigarettes away and shook their heads mulishly.