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the formidable quantity of things of which Lady Rydal disapproved. She disapproved of any reference to religion made by anyone other than herself (levity); she considered politics an unsuitable subject for a lady (Margot Asquith and Lady Astor were not people she would invite to her house); any discussion of the Royal Family’s private life was vulgar (she was probably the only person in London who, from the outset of that affair, had ceased mentioning Edward VIII and who had never pronounced Mrs Simpson’s name); any reference to the body – its appearance, its requirements and, worst of all, its urges – was utterly taboo (even health was tricky since only certain ailments were permissible for women). Villy, as usual, fell back on telling her mother about the children while Bluitt, the parlourmaid, cleared away tea. This was a success; Lady Rydal wore her indulgent smile throughout Lydia’s antics in Daniel Neal, listened to Teddy’s latest letter from school and asked with affection after Louise, of whom she was particularly fond. ‘I must see her before she disappears into the country. Tell her to ring me up and we may arrange for her to pay me a visit.’
    In the taxi going home, Villy reflected that this would be difficult since there were only two full days left before Sussex.

     
    Edward – he had dismissed Bracken after being driven back to the office after lunch – collected the car keys from Miss Seafang, his secretary, refilled his silver cigarette case from the ebony box that she always kept full on his enormous desk, and looked at his watch. Just after four – plenty of time for tea, if he felt inclined. The directors’ meeting had been cancelled as the Old Man had wanted to get off to Sussex and Hugh had one of his headaches. If the Old Man hadn’t wanted to get off, they would have had the meeting, and Hugh would have sat, screwing up his eyes, white and silent except when he hastily agreed to any proposition made. Hugh’s headaches could never be mentioned; he became irritable and then furious at any concern so nothing could be said, which made Edward, anyway, feel worse. He loved his brother and he felt rotten about having survived the war unscathed when his brother had such bloody awful health because of it.
    Miss Seafang put her neat head round the door. ‘Mr Walters would be grateful if you could spare a moment, Mr Edward.’
    Edward looked at his watch again, and registered anxiety and surprise. ‘Good Lord! Ask him to wait until Monday, would you? I’m late for an appointment as it is. Tell him I’ll see him first thing on Monday.’
    ‘I’ll tell him.’
    ‘What would I do without you!’ He gave her a dazzling smile, picked up his hat and went.

     
    All the way home in the Underground and then on the bus, Miss Seafang repeated that remark, savoured and enhanced the smile until it achieved the bloom of (gentlemanly, of course) romance. He understood her, realised her true worth, something nobody else had ever done – had indeed, distorted it so much that she would not have cared to acknowledge the dreary titbits: reliability, a light hand witih pastry and being good with her nephews and nieces.

     
    It was not so much a question of whether he wanted to have tea with Denise, Edward reflected as he drove west from the city, it was a question of being decent. He hadn’t told the poor little girl about his holiday because he knew it would upset her and he hated to see her upset. And next week, with Villy safely in Sussex when she would expect him to be freer, he wouldn’t be at all because on those occasions the family closed in, and, except for one evening at his club, dinner parties had been arranged for him. So really, he ought to go and see her. Small and equal surges of responsibility and excitement beset him: he was one of those fortunate people who actually enjoyed doing the right thing.

     
    Denise was lying on the sofa in her green drawing room wearing a black afternoon