‘Then what about With Rod and Gun through Mesopotamia?’ she had said indignantly.

But it seemed there was no such book, though she was sure she had seen something very like it. It seemed that to go with rod and gun through Mesopotamia would be for some reason very silly, the sort of thing no English gentleman would dream of doing – perhaps it had been big game shooting and perhaps it had been India.

Olivia’s reading was interrupted by Cicely who put her head round the door to say ‘I must tell you something. May I? It’s so intriguing.’ She was wearing riding clothes and her hair was as usual in wisps about her face. ‘It’s a lovely day for riding. I wish we hadn’t had to come back but it’s almost time to change for lunch. I had such a funny conversation with Ellen, that’s what I wanted to tell you about.’

Olivia put down her book. She liked Cicely and was amused by the friendship which had sprung up between them and in which she was cast as the understanding older woman, a role with which she was unfamiliar but which she was prepared to like. She had often noticed how men encouraged boys, once they were of public-school age, in sporting activities particularly but also in matters of manly behaviour, as if the older man, whether or not related by blood, considered it his obligation gently to initiate the younger into the customs of the tribe. She thought this charming and wished that women did it as well. Too often married women seemed to find young girls merely a bore, or worse than that a potential object of jealousy. Olivia did not find Cicely boring. She liked her liveliness and suspected her of having more courage than she herself had ever had. Cicely might well choose to be unconventional; something to which Olivia had never aspired, in her actions at least. Her thoughts, generally speaking, she kept to herself.

‘She’s had an extraordinary letter,’ said Cicely, sitting on the window seat.

Olivia looked at her attentively.

‘Tell me who Ellen is. And then about the letter.’

Minnie, having finished her morning consultation with the cook, was out in the garden talking to Ogden the gardener about the replenishing of the herbaceous border. This vast bed, backed by a high yew hedge, extended down one side of the lawn which spread before the classical garden front of the house. Four men and a boy were working on it while Minnie conferred with the head gardener. They were giving it its autumn grooming, cutting down dead stems, removing canes and stakes to be stored for the winter, forking over the soil between the plants, planting out seedling wallflowers and forget-me-nots, Canterbury bells and Sweet Williams.

‘The asters,’ said Minnie. ‘Look how they’ve spread. Shouldn’t they be divided now? Some could go into the kitchen garden for picking.’

‘Best not lift them now, not until the spring. They won’t thank us for it.’