‘Most of the children are word-perfect. But, of course, it’s the spectacle we count on to rouse interest; it’s to look at more than to listen to. The colours really are rather nice. As a matter of fact, I have the sketches I made for them indoors at this moment. Would you like to see them?’

She was faintly aware of being sycophantic; she had annoyed him and wanted to get back into his good graces.

‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.

They entered her house and went into the sitting room, where she spread the gay drawings on the sofa, and floor. Canon Thorby sat down in a chair and once again suffered one of his physical collapses. Miss Mayfield realized that the little episode just ended had exhausted him; his colour had faded, all the lines of his face sagged in an immense weariness. She remembered Miss Thorby’s headache. His life probably contained unsuspected strains and stresses.

She said, in a voice which she did not know was almost maternal:

‘May I get you one of your own drinks, Canon Thorby?’

‘That would be very kind indeed. I’ve had rather a brute of a day. And this . . . Absurd as it seems, I always loathe having to take anybody to task. I know it has to be done, and I do it, but it does go against the grain.’

‘I can see that.’

He shot her a glance. ‘Most people aren’t so perspicacious; they think I go through life like a well-upholstered steam roller.’ He smiled.

‘Would you like sherry?’ she asked, anxious to minister to him.

‘Not, alas, the sherry which I, remembering Mrs Westleton’s taste, provided for you. I like only dry sherry, so if you’ll give me brandy and soda again, I shall be very happy.’

When she returned to the room, he had revived again, and began to talk with great enthusiasm of her drawings.

‘They’re absolutely beautiful. I’d no idea you had such talent. They’re professional. What do you intend to do with them?’

‘They’ve served their purpose. The costumes are now in the making.’

‘Well, they’re certainly not going back into that portfolio, to blush unseen. With your permission, we’ll have them framed. And then, for a start, we’ll exhibit them at the Fête. . . . Yes, in the Orangery, where the teas are served. . . . Just to show off what talent we now have in Walwyk. And then, after that – well, we’ll see. . . .’

Miss Mayfield, who had a modest estimate of her own skill, decided that he was being exaggeratedly complimentary to make up for having been a little out of temper with her.

9

‘I WANT,’ SAID MISS MAYFIELD, WITH THE DIFFIDENCE of one aware of being in alien territory, ‘a bottle of sherry. And it mustn’t be sweet.’