When Maurice, caught, returned slowly, panting, towards the house, Edward was scarcely winded at all. He vaulted the fence at the edge of the park and bounded across the garden to meet them in the porch, his face radiant with energy. Maurice followed, gasping. Edward grinned:

“Honour is vindicated.”

Mary noticed how thin his hair was getting. When the forelock was pushed aside you could see the small hollow in the skull where he had had the operation after his motor accident, last winter, in Berlin. It must have been a beastly smash. Mary didn’t like looking at it. She asked, smiling:

“Need you give my child indigestion?”

“I’m sorry.”

They walked back across the hall and out on to the terrace. The morning was grey and clear, ready for more rain.

“Say, I could look at this view for ever!” exclaimed Earle.

He seemed so innocent, so much of a Red Indian, in his collar buttoned down at the points, standing there, his hands on the mossy wall, gazing out over the valley. But you wouldn’t like it if you had to, my lad, thought Mary, looking at him, mooning in his absurd Yankee vision of the sixteenth century, with a mixture of affection and irritation. And she felt—as so often—yes, they are all my children.

They are all my children, she felt—including Georges, who at that moment came placidly into sight at the end of the terrace, in his broad-brimmed hat, spotted bow tie, check suit and liver-coloured boots, having wandered off and explored the barns.

“I ’ave seen ze hen,” he announced, beaming.

The Compstalls, it appeared, had kept poultry as a side-line.

Margaret was making a sketch on the back of an envelope.

“Come and see the hen,” said Edward.

“Are you coming?” they asked Mary.

“No, children; I think I’ll go and sit down. I shouldn’t be sorry to get my poor old feet off the ground for a few minutes.”

“Lazy old sow!” said Maurice.

“Thank you for them kind words, my child.”

Mary entered the house, pausing to light a cigarette. She’d noticed that there was still a moderately comfortable sofa in the drawing-room, and anything was preferable to being out-of-doors on a morning like this. All the same, she had to admit she didn’t like being here. It was creepy—probably literally creepy, with black beetles—and damp. The place must be an absolute sponge after all these years without regular fires. As a little girl she’d always felt scared of being alone in this part of the house. Nothing would have induced her to use the front staircase after dark. By daylight it was bad enough. You had always the feeling that there was somebody standing just round the corner above, waiting for you to come up. In the archway to the corridor, where there was a deep shadow. Standing stone-still and waiting. “My God!” said Mary, almost aloud.

“Why, Mother,” said Anne, “did we startle you?”

“You did, indeed, for a moment.”