‘Oh, severe?’ said Mrs Kerr delightedly. ‘Was he really severe? Sydney, you must tell me; how fearfully funny!’ She narrowed her eyes for a moment as though she were trying to picture the meeting of Sydney and Ronald. ‘I don’t believe,’ she admitted, ‘that he was pleased at finding everyone dancing. It didn’t, somehow, seem right. But I dare say he thought you severe; I must ask him – you sometimes terrify me. He seemed rather dazed by you all.’

‘I’m glad his first day is so fine,’ said Sydney, and felt as though by this she were somehow including herself in the happiness of the Kerrs.

‘Yes, I’m always lucky,’ agreed Mrs Kerr. ‘Now we’re going out together. You can’t think what it is like to be going out with a son. It is ridiculously nice – I’d forgotten.’

‘Well, goodbye,’ said Sydney, standing back against the wall for her friend to pass. ‘I don’t suppose we shall see each other again today.’

‘Oh, shan’t we? What a pity!’ Mrs Kerr said vaguely. ‘There’s that unfortunate Ronald,’ she cried, glancing out of the window, ‘marching up and down out there – do look – in a panama hat. How horrid of me to dawdle!’ She nodded to Sydney and went smoothly downstairs leaving behind her faint perfume, a sensible backrush of eagerness, expectancy and delight.

Sydney stared out at the hills, then went on upstairs. She though how ironic it was that a day made to order for two people’s occasion must be at the same time dealt out as a background for everyone else. She felt she had no energy and could never get as far as her room, choose her gloves, find her parasol and put on her hat. At the thought of anything beyond this, her prospect for the day, she faltered. With a sense of reprieve she let herself be waylaid by Cordelia Barry, who was hanging about the stairs.

‘I say, Miss Warren, it’s Thursday.’

‘Is it?’

‘I don’t go to the convent on Thursdays, I was wondering … I thought perhaps … No, but of course you wouldn’t, would you? I don’t suppose it would suit you at all …’ Cordelia, with an air of infinite calculation looked sideways at Sydney under her lashes. Sydney remembering the promise Cordelia had extracted, had a pang of acute nostalgia for that afternoon of the carnations, sundered by the eternity of a different mood.

‘I’m sorry, Cordelia: I’m going for a walk with Mr Milton.’

‘O-oh! That is a pity. I suppose I couldn’t come, too? Oh no, but of course you wouldn’t want me, would you? But I don’t mind Mr Milton if he doesn’t mind me, and I don’t see really why I shouldn’t come.’