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away !’ This came from Diana as a mere cry; she reiterated the words again and again; like a small girl in a tantrum, she waved her fists in front of her face.
    It seemed undeniable to Appleby that he was having a bad evening. First Dr Fell had put on a turn for him, and then – much more violently – this spoilt and sulky child. The judicious response to Diana, he supposed, would be stern words, briskly spoken. Or perhaps she ought to be slapped. Again, her hysteria might be controlled by means of the contents of the watering can. But on the whole it would probably be best to do exactly what she asked, and go away. Diana was in real misery, no doubt, but he was pretty sure its occasion didn’t lie in any quarter where he could be helpful.
    Having come to this conclusion, Appleby turned to leave the loggia. He found himself confronted by Friary.
    ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I supposed there was nobody here, and came to turn off the light.’ As he said this, Friary was clearly enough taking in the scene before him. His expression might have been described as impassive – except, indeed, that this would have been to convey a wrong idea of him. It is the word conventionally applied to the features of upper servants when confronted with an untoward situation. But although Friary was undeniably an upper servant there was something about him – Appleby reflected, not for the first time – that didn’t quite cohere with the character. It wasn’t entirely a matter of his age. It wasn’t even his physique – although that suggested itself as an athlete’s – or anything definably out of the way in his manner. Perhaps it was something that ought to have been quite insignificant: how he held his hands, or the way be brushed his hair.
    But what chiefly struck Appleby now was something quite different; it was consciousness of the turn of speed Friary had put on between closing that distant door upon Dr Fell and presenting himself here in the loggia. He must have had the shocking circumstance of a needlessly burning light very much on his mind. For a moment Appleby even had the strange thought that the man had been hastening to keep an assignation with Diana Page. If it were so, it wouldn’t be quite right, this time, to tell himself that the matter was no business of his. Fortunately – or unfortunately – the idea was probably just another instance of his deplorable professional instinct to uncover intrigue. He simply wasn’t fit – he sometimes told himself – to frequent normal society.
    Meanwhile, Friary was still watching Diana – and doing so very much at his ease. Appleby saw no occasion for this.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll see to the lights.’
    ‘Thank you , sir.’ Friary gave the ghost of a bow, and walked from the loggia. His manner of doing so wasn’t remotely offensive. But even in this action there was something that left one wondering, all the same.
    The interruption had at least served to pull Diana Page together. She had blown her nose; she was now dabbing at herself out of some small cosmetic contrivance.
    ‘I was being silly,’ she said. ‘It’s Mrs Martineau. I can’t bear it.’
    ‘Have you and Martine been staying at Charne long?’ Appleby asked. He had better, he thought, say something that didn’t contravert Diana’s explanation of her conduct, although it wasn’t an explanation he believed.
    ‘A fortnight – nearly three weeks. It seems much longer.’
    ‘You mean it’s rather dull?’
    ‘Yes – no. I don’t know. Martine and I ride together. And play golf. Tennis, when we can persuade Bobby and somebody else to join in.’
    ‘Is Bobby good?’
    ‘Of course not. Bobby’s a bit of a rabbit. But he’s better than nobody.’
    As Diana said this, her glance strayed to the door through which Friary had just departed, with the result that Appleby had once more to clamp down on facile conjecture.
    ‘Isn’t there much in the way of a neighbourhood, as they