“Will that be enough for you?” He seemed almost to be asking them to say that it wouldn’t. They assured him that it would. Mrs. Compstall was looking round, counting the party. At this moment Georges appeared in the doorway, sleek and composed, trailing a muffler along the ground behind him, with his “Aha!” of satisfaction. Mrs. Compstall looked quite alarmed. She asked, in a frankly cowed voice, if they would have their breakfast in the smoking-room. She would be as quick as she could. She hurried away.

“I wonder,” said Edward, “if my memory deceives me!”

He walked over to the porter’s chair and lifted the padded seat.

“Do you remember,” he asked Mary, “the day you first showed me that?”

“Nonsense, my lad. You found it for yourself. I was an exceptionally modest girl.”

Maurice had never seen the chair before. He was delighted. He jostled Edward, for they were both trying to sit down at once. Pamela looked slightly shocked. Margaret said conversationally to Earle:

“It’s rather touching to think of the poor dear never leaving his post.”

“Who?” asked Earle, quite at sea as to what was going on—admiring the pictures.

Maurice was shouting that the cistern was empty. Tommy had begun to laugh in spite of himself, keeping an eye on Anne, hoping she didn’t mind. So Anne laughed. And really it was quite funny until Georges made the whole thing heavy and French by roaring out:

“Ça ne marche pas?”

“Do you think we might wash a bit?” said Mary to Tommy.

He was all responsibility in a moment.

“Yes, of course; I’m sorry. I’ll go and see if I can get you some hot water.”

At length breakfast was announced ready. The smoking-room looked very bare. There were three new small tables covered with American cloth. People had been given teas here in the days when the Hall was open to trippers.

Edward asked Mrs. Compstall:

“Has the Squire been over lately?”

She was plainly puzzled. He had to explain:

“I mean Mr. Ramsbotham.”

That was really rather unkind, thought Mary, especially in front of Tommy. Edward could be malicious when he liked. Poor old Ram’s B. The second Mrs. Ram would do all the squiring for him.

Mrs. Compstall said yes, Mr. Ramsbotham had been over. Mrs. Ramsbotham was somewhere in the South, he’d said, visiting. Of course, Mr. Ramsbotham was always so busy at the mill.

“She’s gone to see her people,” explained Tommy, rather stiffly. Anne had noticed that he avoided mentioning his stepmother as much as possible. Though he never uttered a word against her. Bitch that she is, thought Anne, with sudden fierceness, remembering how Mrs. Ramsbotham patronised Tommy. Always so gracious, always assuming that he knew absolutely nothing about anything—had no education; always stopping to explain when she talked of county families or restaurants, or art, or places abroad. The way she pronounced Italian names or quoted French made one really in love with the Lancashire accent. Anne had once, after a lunch with Mrs. Ram, suddenly kissed Tommy because he’d made grass rhyme with Bass. How good he suddenly seemed. How honest. How pure in heart.