“Lucy, do you mind doing it?”

“How can you ask such a ridiculous question?”

“Poor Lucy — ” She stretched out her hand. “I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go.” Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence — the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs.

“Try the jam,” Freddy was saying. “The jam's jolly good.”

George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:

“No — nothing to eat.”