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the kitchen by Mrs B., the latest nonresident cook, and he set to with much flourishing of knife and steel to carve for everyone. Hope sat at the other end of the long polished table and stared out of the window at the evening garden. She was in one of her moods. Duncan satopposite Rick and Phoebe and in the space beside his chair, Hope’s golden labrador, Hickory, sat, swishing her tail hopefully in an arc across the parquet floor, watching his every movement with liquid brown eyes.
    ‘Madagascar!’ Peter said to the world in general. ‘I seem to remember that in the late nineteenth century its people had a violent insurrection. And against whom did they rise up in rebellion?’ No one rose to his challenge, being too busy passing plates of meat down the table. ‘Wretched woman,’ Peter complained. ‘Why must she overcook every damn thing? It should be
pink
in the middle; run
red
when cut! She needs a firm hand, my dear.’ His wife’s long thin hands twitched slightly on the table by her plate, but she went on looking out of the window. ‘Well?’ Peter demanded, looking all round him. ‘Who were the evil oppressors? Why, the perfidious French, of course. Now what else do we know about Madagascar – apart from the fact that it’s probably a most unsuitable place in which to make a film? Phoebe, what have you to tell us?’
    Phoebe looked defensive. ‘It has those little animals with stripy tails,’ she said, ‘ring-tailed something.’
    ‘Lemurs,’ supplied Rick, smiling.
    ‘Yes.’ Phoebe turned to him gratefully.
    ‘Oh he won’t see any of those,’ Peter said, brushing the suggestion aside. ‘No, what I’m interested in is the history and the economy of the place. Who knows what its population is? Ten million? Twenty million?’
    ‘Twelve,’ said Rick.
    ‘And what’s the source of their wealth?’ Peter demanded, ignoring the interruption. ‘Logging the rainforest – and squashing the lemurs, no doubt – but who can blame them if that’s all they’ve got …’ He went on talking, apparently unconcerned as to whether or not anyone was listening. Duncan nodded at him from time to time, and slipped Hickory sly savoury morsels, but really was watching in gloomy resignation as his brother continued to lay siege to Phoebe with his usual charming-the-pants-off-the-nearest-woman routine, which he always seemed incapable of resisting. Duncan could see that she was blushing with pleasure at his attentions and laughing enthusiastically at his jokes. Every so often she appeared to remember Duncan’sexistence with a start, and at those times she would attempt to include him in their conversation. Duncan was not to be lured in so easily. He hoped if he was uncooperative that sooner or later his disapproval would register with his wife and she would have to stop hanging onto Rick’s every word and pay proper attention to him. He heard Rick ask her about herself, and Phoebe telling the dog rescue story. He noticed his brother’s sardonic glance in his direction and knew that he wasn’t fooled by it. Then it was the proposal story.
    ‘Duncan’s so sweet,’ Phoebe said, smiling briefly in his direction. ‘He was too shy to ask me to marry him face to face, so he waited until he felt safe; lying in the cupboard under the kitchen sink with only his legs sticking out!’
    ‘How romantic!’ said Rick, drily.
    ‘Well it was certainly different,’ Phoebe said giggling. ‘And when I said yes, he was so surprised he forgot where he was and sat up sudden like, and practically knocked himself out!’ She laughed. Rick laughed with her. Peter was still talking about Madagascar. Hope was still looking out of the window. It occurred to Duncan that his marriage had not only been founded upon misunderstandings, but looked doomed to be burdened with them in perpetuity. He should have scotched them when he had had the chance at the time. Now it was impossible. Phoebe was talking about him with friendly mockery