To the Lee-Mittisons, married, of an older generation, it was only possible for their guests to attribute one opinion. ‘Shocked!’ they all assured themselves and instinctively moved away. James Milton found himself between two of the girls and walked with them along the side of the hill, the others distributed themselves ahead of him. He realized that the party had been divided against itself transversely into generations rather than vertically into sexes, and he was flattered to find himself accepted in this camp. They all moved off together, talking vaguely about anemones, the village and the view.

Mr and Mrs Lee-Mittison remained alone. She did not look at her husband, as she was afraid she might look at him stupidly, sympathetically, and knew that this would annoy him. After a pause, through which her needles clicked, she said: ‘Well, I think it’s going off well, don’t you? They all seem to be happy.’

He was walking restlessly round a small circle in which he seemed to be enclosed. His thumbs were tucked beneath the lapels of his coat and he stared round him critically at the expanse of day to be seen from the top of the hill. To left and right the sky sagged down to lower horizons.

‘Happy? I dare say. I guaranteed to keep you thoroughly happy.’

‘They’re dear girls. They’ll be coming back soon, won’t they?’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Lee-Mittison, still unable to catch sight of any of his party, whom the hills seemed to have devoured. ‘I had suggested their going off on their own for a bit.’

‘Oh, I expected you must have. The lunch was nice, wasn’t it – the little biscuits?’

‘Excellent.’

‘it is nice to be alone a little. Oh, Herbert, sit down on the mackintosh – wait, I’ll bring it over to you.’

‘The hills are a bit lonely – I don’t quite like them going away so far.’

‘Oh, they’ll be quite all right together – English girls. What a long bright day! We are always lucky in our weather.’

They were sitting side by side on the grass like a young couple, and for a moment she thought he might be going to pat her hand. She stopped knitting and waited, then, after a glance at his profile, quietly continued. She was saying to herself, ‘Oh, my dear Herbert, my poor Herbert!’ and her mind grew dark with resentment against the others. If one might only, in intimation of what one felt, have pressed up ever so gently against his arm. But he had always to be considered successful; his head, though frequently bloody, might never be admittedly bowed. ‘Very lucky,’ she repeated, ‘in our weather.’

‘Halloo’ he shouted all at once, his hands, like a Triton’s, making a cave round his mouth. ‘Halloo-alloo-alloo-alloo!’ They listened and heard only an echo at the end of the valley. He shouted again; still nobody answered.