WE ARRIVED BACK to find that tea had been laid out in the drawing room, and that it included the most magnificent Christmas cake. The icing had been made to look like a snow scene and decorated with little ceramic figures of tobogganing children, ladies with fur muffs, skaters, snowmen. Not surprisingly, nobody felt much like eating, but we all attempted a slice of cake. The Misses Ffrench-Finch asked if they could take their slices of cake home with them as they couldn’t eat another mouthful. A generous portion was wrapped for them, and one for Miss Prendergast, and the three ladies took their leave.

Miss Prendergast was overcome with emotion. “You are too kind, Lady Hawse-Gorzley, too generous. Such a good person. I don’t deserve . . .” She paused, putting her hand over her heart. “When you have no family, nobody else in the world, it means so much to be part of a celebration like this.”

“Then let’s hope there are many, many more,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, thumping the hand that was extended to her. We duly waved as the old ladies were helped into their car and went home.

Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley produced the indoor fireworks and we passed a jolly hour around the fireplace watching pieces of paper turn into writhing snakes or glowing different colors and finally all holding sparklers. When the last firework was lit, the vicar suggested that we play charades until supper. The dressing-up box was carried down into the study across the hall from the drawing room and we were divided into teams. I found myself on Monty’s team with Badger, Mrs. Upthorpe, Captain Sechrest, and Cherie Wexler. Monty had to explain to Cherie that we select a word and act out the syllables. If the audience can’t guess the word through the syllables, we act out the whole thing.

We rummaged through the props until Badger found an old cow horn. “We could do ‘cornucopia,’” he said. “First syllable is ‘corn.’ Second is ‘you’ and third is ‘cope.’ And then for the whole we’ll produce fruit from the horn and keep eating it.”

This was agreed upon. I was designated to be an old lady in a gray wig, hobbling around, then taking off my shoe and rubbing my toes. They dressed me up in a hideous tippet, wig and hat. Out I went, walking as if my feet hurt me, then taking off my shoe and massaging my toes with an expression of relief.

“Feet . . . foot . . . hurt . . . sore!” came the calls from the audience.

Monty came out to do the next syllable. He simply pointed dramatically at a member of the audience. He chose Mr. Barclay, who turned bright red. I experienced a fleeting feeling of agitation—that something had happened that I should have noticed but didn’t. I tried to analyze. Something to do with corns? With Mr. Barclay? Definitely something I had just seen. . . .