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  Her pale grey eyes hopefully scanned the circle, but this recorded instance of Sampson Warrenby’s consideration for his niece failed to elicit comment from anyone but Mrs Haswell, who merely said: ‘It won’t hurt your uncle to get his own tea. I shouldn’t worry about him, if I were you.’

  She then handed Mr Drybeck a box of tennis-balls, saw all four players pass through the wire gate on to the court, and sat down on the garden-seat, inviting Gavin to join her there. ‘It’s a pity Mrs Cliburn is late,’ she observed. ‘If she were here they could have a proper mixed doubles, and it would make a more even game. However, it can’t be helped. I’m glad Sampson Warrenby didn’t come.’

  ‘You said you were not.’

  ‘Yes, of course: one does say that sort of thing. I had to ask him, because it would have looked so pointed if I’d left him out. You can’t leave people out in a small community: it makes things awkward, as I told Henry.’

  ‘Oh, is that why he went to Woodhall?’ asked Gavin, interested.

  ‘And if I left Mr Warrenby out,’ pursued Mrs Haswell, apparently deaf to this interruption, ‘I should be obliged to leave Mavis out too, which I should be sorry to do.’

  ‘I wish you had left him out.’

  ‘She leads a wretched enough life without being ostracised,’ said Mrs Haswell, still deaf. ‘And you never hear her say an unkind word about him.’

  ‘I never hear her say an unkind word about anyone. There is no affinity between us.’

  ‘I wonder what is keeping the Ainstables?’

  ‘Possibly the fear that nothing has kept Warrenby.’

  ‘I’m sure I said half-past three. I hope Rosamund hasn’t had another of her bad turns. There, now! the young people have finished their set, and the others have only just begun theirs; I wanted to arrange it so that Mr Drybeck should play with the good ones!…Well, how did it end, my dears? Who won?’

  ‘Oh, the children!’ said Kenelm Lindale, with the flash of a rueful smile. ‘Delia and I were run off our feet!’

  ‘You are a liar!’ remarked Abigail Dearham, propping her racquet against a chair, and picking up a scarlet cardigan. ‘We should be still at it, if it hadn’t been for Charles’ almighty fluke.’

  ‘Less of it!’ recommended the son of the house, walking over to a table which bore a phalanx of tumblers, and several kinds of liquid refreshment. ‘A brilliantly conceived shot, executed with true delicacy of touch. What’ll you have, Delia? We can offer you lemonade, orangeade, beer, ginger-beer and Mother’s Ruin. You have only to give it a name.’

  Mrs Lindale, having given it a name, sat down in a chair beside her hostess, her coat draped across her shoulders, and surreptitiously glanced at her wrist-watch. She was a thin young woman, with pale hair, aquiline features, and ice-blue eyes that never seemed quite to settle on any object. She gave the impression of being strung up on wires, her mind always reaching forward to some care a little beyond the present. Since her husband had abandoned a career on the Stock Exchange to attempt the precarious feat of farming, it was generally felt that she had every reason to look anxious. They had not been settled for very long at Rushyford Farm, which lay to the north of Thornden, on the Hawkshead road; and those who knew most about the hazards of farming in England wondered for how long they would remain. Both were energetic, but neither was accustomed to country life; and for Delia at least the difficulties were enhanced by the existence of a year-old infant, on whom she lavished what older and more prosaic parents felt to be an inordinate amount of care and adoration. Those who noticed her quick glance at her watch knew that she was wondering whether the woman who helped her in the house had remembered to carry out the minute instructions she had left for the care of the infant, or whether Rose-Veronica might not have been left to scream unheard in her pram. Her husband knew it too, and, catching her eye, smiled, at once comfortingly and teasingly. He was a handsome, dark man, some few years her senior. He had the ready laughter that often accompanies a quick temper, a pair of warm brown eyes, and a lower lip that supported the upper in a way that gave a good deal of resolution to his face. He and Delia were recognised as a devoted couple. His attitude towards her was protective; she, without seeming to be mentally dependent upon him, was so passionately absorbed in him that she could never give all her attention to anyone else if he were present.

  Mrs Haswell, who had seen her glance at her watch, gave her hand a pat, and said, smiling: ‘Now, I’m not going to have you worrying over your baby, my dear! Mrs Murton will look after her perfectly well.’

  Delia flushed, and gave an uncertain laugh. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean – I was only wondering.’

  Abigail Dearham, a very pretty girl, with a mop of chestnut curls, and wide-open grey eyes, looked at her with the interest she accorded to everyone who came in her way. ‘Have you got a baby?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, a little girl. But I really wasn’t worrying about her. That is to say –’

  ‘Do you look after her yourself? Is it an awful sweat?’

  ‘Oh, no! Of course, it does tie one, but I love doing it.’

  ‘You ought to get out more, dear,’ said Mrs Haswell.

  ‘I expect it’s fun, having a baby,’ said Abby, giving the matter her serious consideration. ‘I shouldn’t like to be tied down, though.’

  ‘Yes, you would. You don’t mind being tied down by your old Inky,’ said Charles.

  ‘That’s different. I have set hours with him.’

  ‘Not much you don’t!’ said Charles rudely. ‘You’re always being kept on after hours because he’s in the middle of a chapter, or wants you to manage one of his beastly parties!’

  His mother, not betraying the fact that she had received sudden enlightenment, said in an easy tone: ‘Abby is Geoffrey Silloth’s secretary, Delia. So interesting!’

  ‘No, by Jove, are you really?’ said Kenelm. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Oh, quite a toot!’ replied Abby cheerfully. ‘He’s gone off to Antibes for a fortnight, which is why I’ve got a holiday.’

  This description of a distinguished man of letters was received with equanimity by Mrs Haswell, accustomed to the phraseology of youth; with complete understanding by Charles, and the Lindales; and with patent nausea by Gavin Plenmeller, who asked in silken accents to have the term explained to him.

  ‘Ah, here come Mrs Cliburn and the Squire!’ said Mrs Haswell, rising to greet these timely arrivals. ‘Edith, how nice! But, Bernard, isn’t Rosamund coming?’

  The Squire, a squarely built man who looked older than his sixty years, shook hands, saying: ‘One of her heads. She told me to make her apologies, and say she’d be along to tea, if she feels up to it. I don’t think there’s much hope of it, but I left the car for her, just in case.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry! You know Mrs Lindale, don’t you? And her husband, of course.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Glad to see you, Mrs Lindale! And you, Lindale.’ His deep-set eyes travelled to the tennis-courts. ‘Warrenby not here? Good opportunity for the rest of us to talk over this business about the River Board. Where’s Henry, Adelaide?’

  ‘Well, I expect he’ll be back before you leave,’ replied Mrs Haswell. ‘Though if it’s about this tiresome River Board affair, I do wish – However, it’s not my business, so you’d better talk to Henry. I must say, it does seem a lot of fuss about very little.’

  ‘One does so want to avoid unpleasantness,’ said Mrs Cliburn. ‘Of course, it isn’t anything to do with us either, but Tony and I can’t help feeling that it would be a shame to appoint anyone but Mr Drybeck to act for this new River Board. I mean, he always did when it was the Catchment Board, didn’t he? And he’d be bound to feel very badly about it, particularly if Mr Warrenby was appointed instead of him. But I oughtn’t to give my opinion,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Well, well, it isn’t such a great matter, after all!’ said the Squire. ‘We must see what Haswell thinks.’

  ‘Dad won’t support Warrenby, sir,’ interpolated Cha