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Angrave was certainly right in saying that his uncle had another twenty years in him. Many men similarly circumstanced, it occurred to Appleby, if looking forward to such a span of time, would judge it proper that a place like Charne should not be without a mistress. It was hard to imagine Charles Martineau married again. And it was harder, somehow, to imagine Charne without Grace, who had simply come to it as a bride, than without Charles, who had inherited it. But women sometimes do grow into a house in that way, and take on the main burden of guarding and expressing its continuity. It would be Mrs Martineau who would be chiefly horrified if, say, it were suggested that the Holman Hunts be detached from the walls for despatch to a museum, or even that a little more room be made here for simple moving about.
    How much Mrs Martineau did stand for Charne was emphasized at the moment by the mere fact that, since she had gone to bed, Martine Rivière was in some slight manner acting as hostess during these last social exchanges of the evening. Martine was a very different sort of person from her aunt. As Mrs Martineau’s niece, it seemed unlikely that she would ever inherit the property, although Appleby rather understood that Charne was in no way tied up or entailed. But suppose she married her cousin Bobby Angrave, who did seem a likely heir – what would happen then? In the fullness of time poor Holman Hunt would certainly vanish in favour of whatever might be held in vogue in that particular future; the place would be given a new and contemporary note; there would be a good deal of entertaining of the sort that reflects less a play of personal sympathies and attractions than a policy or line in some chosen field of manoeuvre – political, literary, artistic, or whatever. No harm in that. And whether, in these circumstances, Charne would continue to be a barren house was an open question. Appleby found he couldn’t imagine Martine Rivière’s children by Bobby Angrave. But this didn’t mean that they mightn’t, one day, be swarming all over the place. Dimly, one rather saw them as little eggheads – and chilly ones at that. But at least Charne would give them a chance. They could first paddle and then swim in those great stone basins; they could be Cherokees or Martians in Charne Wood.
    Meanwhile, Charne was rather massively as it had been for a long time. The ‘improvements’ about which the young husband and wife had talked in the little belvedere long ago must themselves have been of a conservative order. It was true that the house now preserved an even temperature, summer and winter, throughout; true that water, hot and cold, ran into its every corner, true that it displayed that proliferation of elegant ivory telephones convenient in an age in which it is politic to converse with servants rather than baldly summon them. But these were superficial changes. Essentially, two wars, each with its succeeding peace, had left Charne very much as it had been.
    Abandoning Diana – which seemed the tactful thing to do – Appleby moved over to Martine. She was very far from being a charmless person. Indeed, Nature had formed her perfect – as a statue may be perfect, for she had a figure from which one could almost imagine the most lusty bachelor as stripping the garments with an aesthetic rather than an erotic intent. On the other hand, she didn’t suggest herself as a creature without passion; it was simply that she rather left one wondering under just what circumstances this marble Galatea would spring to life.
    ‘My aunt has made her excuses,’ Martine said, a shade formally. ‘She has gone to bed. How much she likes to have her friends around her! But it tires her, all the same.’ She pointed to a table. ‘Won’t you get yourself some whisky, Sir John? Friary is locking up.’
    ‘Thank you. Is Friary keen on security? It’s a quality commending itself to a policeman.’
    ‘I think he is. And quite a lot