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which was full of  the trilling of birdsong. It was just the sort of day that made her feel good to be alive.
    If only she did not have to spoil it all by calling on Mr Evington . . .
    Still, it must be done, so the sooner she got it over with the better.
    Reaching the end of the drive she crossed the turning circle. Mounting the stone steps to the front door she lifted her long skirt elegantly with one hand so that she would not trip over it, and then rang the bell. It was answered promptly by the butler, who took her parasol, and Cicely was shown into the drawing-room, where she had a chance to look round before Mr Evington joined her.
    The room, she was relieved to see, was unchanged. Although Mr Evington had only been there a day, she had dreaded to find that all the good furniture would have been pushed aside and vulgar new pieces put in its place. But so far, at least, the grand old furniture she had been forced to sell along with the Manor was still there: an elegant damasked sofa, now, alas, rather moth-eaten, which had been bought by her great-grandmother; a fine pianoforte purchased by her grandfather; a variety of occasional tables; a chaise longue ; and a few good chairs.
    The door opened and she turned round swiftly to see Mr Evington enter the room.
    She could not help but notice his look of admiration as his eyes swept over her and she felt relieved. It had been worth it, then, the time and effort she had spent on her appearance. At least this afternoon he would have no cause for mirth.
    ‘Miss Haringay,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
    ‘You will not think it a pleasure, I fear, when I tell you why I have come,’ she returned.
    ‘No?’
    ‘No.’
    He indicated the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She settled herself gracefully on the sofa. He sat down opposite her on a hard-backed chair.
    ‘Mr Evington, I will come straight to the point.’ If this was to be a business meeting she would conduct it in a business-like manner, she told herself. ‘I understand that you have refused the Sunday school permission to hold their picnic at the Manor this year.’
    His eyes hardened. ‘Mrs Murgatroyd didn’t lose any time, then,’ he said under his breath. Aloud he said, ‘This is a private house, Miss Haringay. It is not a venue for local jaunts.’
    ‘That is just where you are wrong.’ She returned his look with one which was equally firm. ‘This is not a private house, it is a manor house, and it comes with obligations attached. You may not have heard of it, but there is such a thing as noblesse oblige -’
    ‘Nobility imposes obligations,’ he translated. ‘You see, I am not completely ignorant, Miss Haringay,’ he returned, and although there was a hint of humour in his voice, the humour did not reach his eyes. ‘But I was not aware that I was a member of the nobility. Or you either,’ he added sardonically.
    ‘Nevertheless, as the owner of Oakleigh Manor you have certain obligations, and one of them is to host the Sunday school picnic,’ said Cicely.
    ‘And if I don’t want a parcel of children running over the lawns?’ he asked innocently.
    ‘Then you tell yourself you shouldn’t be so selfish and host the picnic anyway,’ she returned.
    His face darkened and she could tell she had hit a nerve.
    ‘This is too much,’ he said angrily. ‘Lessons in selfishness from -’
    ‘ - someone who has had everything falling into her lap from the day of her birth?’ she asked innocently. ‘Yes, Mr Evington. Exactly that. The Haringays have hosted the Sunday village activities here from time immemorial, whether they have wanted to or not, and the villagers all expect you to do the same.’
    He looked annoyed, and a scowl crossed his face.
    ‘I can’t see what you have against the idea,’ she said reasonably. ‘Is it really so difficult for you to put the children of the village before yourself for one afternoon a year?’
    ‘You are adept at putting