Mrs Grieve gave a short sharp sigh. ‘I suppose it is. But . . .’ She hesitated and then rushed on. ‘I suppose I heard too much about it before I ever saw it, and then lived alongside such an enthusiast. My husband – he’s been dead almost four years, poor man – always used to spend his holidays at the Rectory; he was a friend of Freddie Thorby’s at school, and his parents were abroad most of the time. He used to rave about Walwyk, and always said when he retired he would build a house here. We came on one leave and ever after I knew that it wasn’t my idea of the perfect place to end in, but he was so keen, I hadn’t the heart . . . And then, just when we did retire, Hal Thorby’s old aunt – who used to live in your house – died, and Hal wanted the house but not the huge garden and orchard. So my husband bought the land and built what we thought was the ideal house. Since his death I’ve been in a quandary. I do like the house, and one must have a base, and I know I couldn’t sell it for anything like what it cost. And Barbara always has a very gay time when we are here. But frankly I loathe the place.’

‘What a pity. Why?’

‘I just couldn’t say. George always said it was mere perversity. I don’t think so. It’s too small, and everybody is related to everybody else. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl.’ She took a sandwich and bit it thoughtfully. ‘Yet I’ve lived in places where there were only half a dozen European families. My husband was a mining engineer and I’ve lived in strange places, quite happily. I’m never happy here.’

Miss Mayfield remarked that it was a pity; it was such a nice house; it reminded her, she said, of houses in Kenya.

‘Oh, have you lived there, too?’ Mrs Grieve asked eagerly. They talked about Africa for some time. Once, during this conversation. Miss Mayfield made a slip and said, ‘I was saying to Rose only the other day . . .’ But it was all right; Mrs Grieve could not know who Rose was, or that that comment had been made at least three years ago.

Mrs Grieve, indeed, seemed so delighted to have someone to talk to that Miss Mayfield’s words, or silence, mattered very little. Twice Miss Mayfield made a move to go, and each time was begged not to be in a hurry. Carrie came and removed the tea-tray, and almost immediately afterwards Mrs Grieve was suggesting a sundown drink.

‘I’m afraid I don’t drink.’

‘A cool soft drink, then. I don’t know how you feel, but I think it’s growing hotter. I think we shall have a storm.’

‘I haven’t unpacked yet.’