Mrs Lee-Mittison saw that Sydney Warren and Mr Milton had wandered away by themselves, and that Veronica Lawrence, apparently unattached, was strolling among the olive trees a little way down the slope. This did not seem like Veronica, and it was not like Veronica, either, to remain so persistently unaware of the ascending Englishman in the grey flannel coat coming so rapidly up towards her. Mrs Lee-Mittison, with faint misgivings thought she recognized the set of those shoulders and, leaning forward a little, saw from the shape of the head that this was indeed Victor Ammering. She quivered; the hill was too small, there were too many other hills for her to believe that this could be anything but a deliberate intrusion. Herbert particularly had not wanted Mr Ammering. He did not care at all for the young man, who was unintelligent, too talkative and did not bring at all a nice atmosphere into a party. Herbert was quite sure the girls didn’t like Mr Ammering either and would not wish him to be invited; that was the most delightful aspect of modern girls; they all liked just being jolly together.

‘Veronica,’ she called sharply, ‘here, just a minute, my dear!’ She might have been calling back a paddling child from under the menacing curve of a breaker.

‘What for?’ Veronica looked up at her astonished.

‘Mr Ammering seems to be coming up the hill. I think he must be making some mistake.’

‘Well, it isn’t a private hill,’ said Veronica. ‘I suppose he’s simply going for a walk.’

‘Don’t you think we had better tell him,’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison, ‘that his friends are not up here? It would save him the climb.’ She fidgeted and swayed slightly; she was gathering Herbert’s happiness, all his little plans for the day, for protection under her feathers, and she gave such an impression of being rufled-out, apprehensive and angry that she did actually make Veronica think of a hen, with head a little on one side and blinking bright eyes.

‘How odd,’ said Veronica, sitting down on the grass still a little below her, ‘that Victor should have hit on this hill. I thought he was playing tennis. However, it’s his walk, and I suppose it’s his hill as much as ours. I can’t see that we can do anything about it, Mrs Lee-Mittison, except be rude.’ She took off her hat and shook back her fluffy cropped hair.

‘I hope I shall not be rude,’ said Mrs Lee-Mittison with a quiver in her voice.

‘Hullo, Victor, I thought you were playing tennis!’

‘Do I look as if I was playing tennis?’

‘Fool! You can’t come here, it’s somebody else’s picnic.’

‘Well, I suppose I can walk about on the hill!’

‘Fool – you do look hot! Go and walk about on one of the other hills.’