Fitz shook his head. ‘If there is a war, the government will ask owners of large country houses to put them at the disposal of the military for the duration. As a member of the government, I must set an example. I shall have to lend Tŷ Gwyn to the Welsh Rifles for use as a training centre, or possibly a hospital.’

Bea was outraged. ‘But it is my country house!’

‘We may reserve a small part of the premises for private use.’

‘I don’t choose to live in a small part of the premises – I am a princess!’

‘It might be cosy. We could use the butler’s pantry as a kitchen, and the breakfast room as a dining room, plus three or four of the smaller bedrooms.’

‘Cosy!’ Bea looked disgusted, as if something unpleasant had been set before her, but she said no more.

Andy said: ‘Presumably Boy and I will have to join the Welsh Rifles.’

May made a noise in her throat like a sob.

Boy said: ‘I shall join the Air Force.’

Fitz was shocked. ‘But you can’t. The Viscount Aberowen has always been in the Welsh Rifles.’

‘They haven’t got any planes. The next war will be an air war. The RAF will be desperate for pilots. And I’ve been flying for years.’

Fitz was about to argue, but the butler came in and said: ‘The car is ready, my lord.’

Fitz looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Dash it, I’ve got to go. Thank you, Grout.’ He looked at Boy. ‘Don’t make a final decision until we’ve talked some more. This is not right.’

‘Very well, Papa.’

Fitz looked at Bea. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for leaving in the middle of dinner.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

Fitz got up from the table and walked to the door. Daisy noticed his limp, a grim reminder of what the last war had done.

The rest of dinner was gloomy. They were all wondering whether the Prime Minister would declare war.

When the ladies got up to withdraw, May asked Andy to take her arm. He excused himself to the two remaining men, saying: ‘My wife is in a delicate condition.’ It was the usual euphemism for pregnancy.

Boy said: ‘I wish my wife were as quick to get delicate.’

It was a cheap shot, and Daisy felt herself blush bright red. She repressed a retort, then asked herself why she should be silent. ‘You know what footballers say, Boy,’ she said loudly. ‘You have to shoot to score.’

It was Boy’s turn to blush. ‘How dare you!’ he said furiously.

Andy laughed. ‘You asked for it, brother.’

Bea said: ‘Stop it, both of you. I expect my sons to wait until the ladies are out of earshot before indulging in such disgusting talk.’ She swept out of the room.

Daisy followed, but she parted company from the other women on the landing and went on upstairs, still feeling angry, wanting to be alone. How could Boy say such a thing? Did he really believe it had to be her fault that she was not pregnant? It could just as easily be his! Perhaps he knew that, and tried to blame her because he was afraid people would think he was infertile. That was probably the truth, but it was no excuse for a public insult.