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parlour which opened on to the garden. A flight of eight steps with a canopy of wistaria overhead led to the garden-room.
    ‘My little plot,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘Very modest, as you see, three-quarters of an acre at the most, but well screened. My flower-beds: sweet roses, tortoiseshell butterflies. Rather a nice clematis. My Little Eden I call it, so small, but so well beloved.’
    ‘Enchanting!’ said Lucia, looking round the garden before mounting the steps up to the garden-room door. There was a very green and well-kept lawn, set in bright flower-beds. A trellis at one end separated it from a kitchen-garden beyond, and round the rest ran high brick walls, over which peered the roofs of other houses. In one of these walls was cut a curved archway with a della Robbia head above it.
    ‘Shall we just pop across the lawn,’ said Miss Mapp, pointing to this, ‘and peep in there while Withers brings our tea? Just to stretch the – the limbs, Mrs Lucas, after your long drive. There’s a wee little plot beyond there which is quite a pet of mine. And here’s sweet Puss-Cat come to welcome my friends. Lamb! Love-bird!’
    Love-bird’s welcome was to dab rather crossly at the caressing hand which its mistress extended, and to trot away to ambush itself beneath some fine hollyhocks, where it regarded them with singular disfavour.
    ‘My little secret garden,’ continued Miss Mapp as they came to the archway. ‘When I am in here and shut the door, I mustn’t be disturbed for anything less than a telegram. A rule of the house: I am very strict about it. The tower of the church keeping watch, as I always say over my little nook, and taking care of me. Otherwise not overlooked at all. A little paved walk round it, you see, flower-beds, a pocket-handkerchief of a lawn, and in the middle a pillar with a bust of good Queen Anne. Picked it up in a shop here for a song. One of my lucky days.’
    ‘Oh Georgie, isn’t it too sweet?’ cried Lucia. ‘
Un giardino segreto. Molto bello!
’
    Miss Mapp gave a little purr of ecstasy.
    ‘How lovely to be able to talk Italian like that,’ she said. ‘So pleased you like my little …
giardino segreto
, was it? Now shall we have our tea, for I’m sure you want refreshment, and see the house afterwards? Or would you prefer a little whisky and soda, Mr Pillson? I shan’t be shocked. Major Benjy – I should say Major Flint – often prefers a small whisky and soda to tea on a hot day after his game of golf, when he pops in to see me and tell me all about it.’
    The intense interest in humankind, so strenuously cultivated at Riseholme, obliterated for a moment Lucia’s appreciation of the secret garden.
    ‘I wonder if it was he whom we saw at the corner of the High Street,’ she said. ‘A big soldier-like man, with a couple of golf-clubs.’
    ‘How you hit him off in a few words,’ said Miss Mapp admiringly. ‘That can be nobody else but Major Benjy. Going off no doubt by the steam-tram (most convenient, lands you close to the links) for a round of golf after tea. I told him it would be far too hot to play earlier. I said I should scold him if he was naughty and played after lunch. He served for many years in India. Hindustanee is quite a second language to him. Calls “
Quai-hai
” when he wants his breakfast. Volumes of wonderful diaries, which we all hope to see published some day. His house is next to mine down the street. Lots of tiger-skins. A rather impetuous bridge-player: quite wicked sometimes. You play bridge of course, Mrs Lucas. Plenty of that in Tilling. Some good players.’
    They had strolled back over the lawn to the garden-room where Withers was laying tea. It was cool and spacious, one window was shaded with the big leaves of a fig-tree, through which, unseen, Miss Mapp so often peered out to see whether her gardener was idling. Over the big bow-window looking on to the street one curtain was half-drawn, a grand piano stood near it, book-cases half-lined