the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel.

When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far:

‘Rupert! Rupert!’ The first syllable was high and slow, the second dropped down. ‘Roo-o-opert.’

But there was no answer. A maid appeared.

‘Where is Mr Birkin, Alice?’ asked the mild straying voice of Hermione. But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane WILL!

‘I think he’s in his room, madam.’

‘Is he?’

Hermione went slowly up