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and brazen performance, which I couldn’t help admiring.
    Father looked on in thrall, like a man fascinated by a cobra.
    “Are you all right, Flavia?” he said at last, not budging from his position on the third step from the bottom.
    “Yes, Father,” I said.
    I was going to add “Thank you for asking” but I stopped myself just in time. I didn’t want to overdo it.
    Father looked slowly from one of us to another with his sad eyes, as if there were no words left in the world from which to choose.
    “There will be a parley at seven o’clock,” he said at last. “In the drawing room.”
    With a final glance at each of us, he turned and trudged slowly up the stairs.
    “The thing of it is,” Father was saying, “you girls just don’t seem to understand …”
    And he was right: We no more understood his world than he did ours.
    His was a world of confetti: a brightly colored universe of royal profiles and scenic views on sticky bits of paper; a world of pyramids and battleships, of rickety suspension bridges in far-flung corners of the globe, of deep harbors, lonely watchtowers, and the heads of famous men. In short, Father was a stamp collector, or a “philatelist,” as he preferred to call himself, and to be called by others.
    His every waking moment was spent in peering through a magnifying lens at paper scraps in an eternal search for flaws. The discovery of a single microscopic crack in a printing plate, which had resulted in an unwanted hair on Queen Victoria’s chin, could send him into raptures.
    First would come the official photograph, and elation. He would bring out of storage, and set up on its tripod in his study, an ancient plate camera with a peculiar attachment called a macroscopic lens, which allowed him to take a close-up of the specimen. This, when developed, would produce an image large enough to fill an entire page of a book. Sometimes, as he fussed happily over these operations, we would catch snatches of H.M.S. Pinafore or The Gondoliers drifting like fugitives through the house.
    Then would come the written paper which he would submit to The London Philatelist or suchlike, and with it would come a certain crankiness. Every morning Father would bring to the breakfast table reams of writing paper which he would fill, page after laborious page, with his minuscule handwriting.
    For weeks he would be unapproachable, and would remain so until such time as he had scribbled the last word—and more—on the topic of the queen’s superfluous whisker.
    Once, when we were lying on the south lawn looking up into the blue vault of a perfect summer sky, I had suggested to Feely that Father’s quest for imperfections was not limited to stamps, but was sometimes expanded to include his daughters.
    “Shut your filthy mouth!” she’d snapped.
    “The thing of it is,” Father repeated, bringing me back to the present, “you girls don’t appear to understand the gravity of the situation.”
    Mainly he meant me.
    Feely had ratted, of course, and the story of how I had vaporized one of Harriet’s dreadful Victorian brooches had come tumbling out of her mouth as happily as the waters of a babbling brook.
    “You had no right to remove it from your mother’s dressing room,” Father said, and for a moment his cold blue stare was shifted to my sister.
    “I’m sorry,” Feely said. “I was going to wear it to church on Sunday to impress Dieter. It was quite wrong of me. I should have asked permission.”
    It was quite wrong of me? Had I heard what I thought I’d heard, or were my ears playing hob with me? It was more likely that the sun and the moon should suddenly dance a jolly jig in the heavens than that one of my sisters should apologize. It was simply unheard of.
    The Dieter Feely had mentioned was Dieter Schrantz, of Culverhouse Farm, a former German prisoner of war who had chosen to remain behind in England after the armistice. Feely had him in her sights.
    “Yes,” Father said. “You