'Even Daisy might have done wrong,' I say.

'In principle, no doubt.' He smiles. 'We are all born sinners, after all. But, in truth, what sins could you have committed when you were what? Ten? Eleven? Cross words, perhaps? Little untruths, or failure to say your prayers? Well, I forgive you those, if you need forgiving.'

It's as if I am calling to him from a distant sh.o.r.e in a language he doesn't understand. I have to persist, though. I take his hand in mine. 'Robert, supposing just for a moment that I had committed sins that were much worse than you imagine? Sins that are preventing me being a proper wife to you?'

'I'd forgive you, of course.' It comes out so pat. 'But you've lived in the bosom of a G.o.d-fearing family all your life. How could you have committed any real sins?'

'But if I had would it change your feelings for me?'

'There is nothing that would change my feelings for you, Margaret.' He gives me his most brilliant smile.

'Nothing? Are you sure, Robert? Absolutely, completely sure?'

His brilliant smile is somewhat fixed now. 'Good heavens, what is this catechism of "just suppose" all about?' he says. 'Truly, my dear, it's rather silly, and I think you should stop it straight away.'

I see that he is uncomfortable with the notion that I have sins; they spoil his idea of me. But if we are to start afresh in our marriage, I must speak what is in my mind, truth or not. 'Please, Robert, there are things I need to tell you. I'm not altogether sure about them. But you might wish you hadn't married me when you know.'

'I think that unlikely, unless good heavens, you're not by any chance married to someone else, are you?' He pretends to think this very amusing.

But I won't be stopped. I warm to my theme now, the acc.u.mulated despair of seven weeks rushing to the surface. 'But supposing there is a part of me you don't know about some secret I haven't told you? Supposing I am not quite as I should be? Supposing that's what's stopping me from being your wife in more than name?'

He laughs, uneasily this time. 'Come now, Margaret.'

'I won't "come now"!' My voice rises as the words spill out. 'Supposing there is an impediment, Robert? An impediment that cannot be overcome? Perhaps that is the cause of all our difficulties. Maybe I will never be able to love you. Maybe you should cast me off. You can annul a marriage that's not been consummated there'll be no disgrace to you. You can say I am mad just like my father.'

'Quiet, I beg you!' He glances at the door. In a low voice he says, 'Are you really telling me that you wish to end our marriage?'

'No, Robert, I don't wish to. But it may be for the best.'

'I see. I suppose the truth of the matter is that you find me repellent.' A flush creeps over his cheeks.

I want to deny it, to spare him more misery; but I cannot separate him in my mind from Papa Papa with his ticking watch; Papa with his hands around my waist; Papa in his nightshirt, pulling me onto his lap. And I know it was the sight of Robert in his nightshirt that so horrified me on our wedding night. Even before the glimpse of his naked skin and bushy hair. And I begin to shake even now to think of his dark and secret body beneath his respectable clergyman's clothes; the waxy flesh under the thick layers of serge and linen. 'No, Robert,' I say, trying to find the words to console him. 'It is not exactly that.'

'Not exactly?' He laughs a short and mirthless laugh. 'Hardly an extravagant compliment. We men have our pride, you know. We like to think we are attractive to our wives.'

'You are attractive, Robert. You are kind and good and ' I cast about for what to say. ' And you are very nice-looking, too.'

'Nice-looking! Well, Margaret, forgive me, but when a man's had to watch his wife sheltering under the bed on her wedding night it's hard to believe that she finds him "nice-looking"! When she refuses to kiss him or even to hold his hand, it is hard to believe she finds him appealing in any way!'

My voice rises again. 'Why won't you understand? It's Papa. He's the one who's coming between us. Oh, please make him go away, Robert! I don't want him near me any more!' I start to weep, noisily. The tears gush down my cheeks in torrents and run into my mouth as I gasp and sob, gasp and sob.

He is alarmed now. 'Please, Margaret, take a deep breath. You are near to being hysterical.' He releases his hold on me and takes out his pocket-handkerchief. I watch him shake out the neat folds before he wipes my cheeks. 'Now, listen to me. You have allowed your imagination to get the better of you and have started believing the most ridiculous things. The "difficulty" in our marriage has nothing to do with any sins you may have committed as a child except in your mind. That is where you are at fault. That is where your thoughts are disarrayed. I do not blame you, and therefore there is no need to blame yourself. If misplaced blame has been holding you back from loving me, I'm sure our problem can be resolved in no time at all. There will be no need for doctors.'

'It's not misplaced blame, Robert.' I sob, wishing he would listen before jumping to conclusions.

'Well, maybe that is not the only reason. You are young and fragile and your fear of the conjugal act is understandable. But I am sure the Harley Street man will set your mind at rest on matters of well, on any matter of concern. And I have been reading some books on the subject books I should have consulted earlier and I realize a woman must not be pressed. She must be allowed to ready herself for her wifely duties in her own time. Preparation is necessary: a light diet, loose clothes, meditation. One should not rush into things on the wedding night so soon after all the exhaustion of the preparations: the ceremony, the wedding breakfast and so forth. And one needs to ration one's resources; abstinence should be practised even within marriage in order to protect the woman's health. I have been too hasty, I see. I have only thought of myself. If it is anyone's fault, it is mine.'

All the time he's been drying my tears, I've been obliged to study his face at close quarters. There are flecks of yellow in the brown of his irises, a small round mole near his eyebrow, and a patch of reddened skin where he has shaved too close around his mouth and chin. I'm shocked that I've never seen these imperfections before; it comes home to me that I have never really looked at him as a woman should look at her lover, with an eye for every detail of his face and body. I've drifted through our courtship like a dream-girl. And Robert never broke into that dream; content, it seemed, with soft words and shy smiles. And I suppose I must have imagined that married life would go on like that that we would lie side by side in our bed-gowns and chatter inconsequentially into the small hours; that he would make b.u.t.tercup crowns for me and place them chastely on my head before turning over to pursue an innocent sleep; or that we would kiss in bird-pecks like Hansel and Gretel in the wood. I must have kept everything else at bay happy simply to envisage new clothes, wedding presents, and the pleasure of leaving my mother's house. Poor Robert, as he watched me come to him with orange blossom in my hair, could have had no idea what an unprepared wife I would turn out to be. And for my own part, I had no premonitions, no fears, no misgivings. I might have been setting out on a summer picnic. No shadow of the past even crossed my mind. But my ignorance is not Robert's fault, and I need to be the one to make amends.

'Dear Robert.' I put my hand up to his face, tracing the shape of the little mole. 'You are so good and patient. I will do whatever you say. I will forget my foolish thoughts. I will see the doctor and do whatever he recommends.'

He smiles. 'I am so glad. So very glad. We will triumph, Margaret. We will triumph.' He brings his own hand up to meet mine, running his lips lightly over my fingers so lightly it tickles. I am surprised to find that, having no expectation that it will lead to anything else, I almost enjoy the sensation. A slip of fire threads through my abdomen. We sit in silence for a while, and I think that maybe things will resolve themselves as he says, with time and patience, with light diets and loose clothing, and the careful advice of the Harley Street man.

'Now, my dear,' he murmurs. 'If it is not too prosaic a point, I think we might allow ourselves to get up from the floor. It's unseemly to be crouching here and a little hard on the joints.' He rises, puts out his arms and lifts me up so we are both standing on the scattered contents of the journal. His heel almost skewers a piece of card lying face down, and he stoops to retrieve it.

But I have already seen what it is. As I catch sight of the scratched and battered backing with Daisy 1862 written on it, I remember oh dear G.o.d, I remember the day I came into Papa's study, and all the photographs I'd secreted in my journal were laid upon his desk, like a dreadful game of patience. And there was Papa standing behind the desk, staring at them and then at me, as if to be sure that I was the same girl, in my cotton dress and pinafore, as the angels and nymphs and flower-girls that lay so artfully in front of him. I thought he would surely punish me most severely for keeping such a secret and I was unable to speak for fear. His face seemed quite flushed, but he put his arms around me and said, 'Well, Daisy, you have clearly been a beautiful angel for John. I think you must be an angel for me, too.' But, although he was not at all cross and said there was nothing at all wrong, my clothes seemed to burn me with shame as I took them off.

Robert must not see the picture. I try to pull it from his grasp. But he thinks I am teasing, and holds it away from me, laughing. 'Please don't look at it!' I cry.

But Robert laughs again. He wants to see, he says. He turns it over, full of delighted antic.i.p.ation. He expects a shy little girl in a pretty dress. The shock almost floors him. 'Good G.o.d,' he exclaims, and sits down suddenly upon the bed. There is a long silence. His gaze seems fixed to the photograph, as if mesmerized. Then, after a long while: 'Who on earth took this?'

'A man called John Jameson,' I say lightly. 'He was a friend of Papa's.'

'I know who he is. He is the best-known man in Oxford. But he is a respectable man in Holy Orders.' He shakes his head, as if it is beyond imagining.

'But what is the matter?' I ask.

'You are naked,' he says.

'I was being a cherub,' I say, attempting lightness. 'You see, I have wings.' Although I can't help thinking that the feathers look rather forlorn, now.

Robert holds the photograph by the corners, as if it is contaminated. 'But why on earth are you smiling like that?' His voice is shaking.

'Smiling?' I'm surprised he thinks that. John Jameson told me never to smile when he was taking a photograph. He said smiles had the habit of looking fixed if they were held for more than ten seconds. I have a very candid expression, admittedly, and there is perhaps just the hint of a smile. 'I don't know, Robert,' I say. 'Perhaps I was happy. Mr Jameson usually made me happy.'

'Did he? Then he seems to have been successful where I clearly have not.' His voice has a hurt, angry tone that I have never heard before.

'What is the matter, Robert? It's only a photograph.'

'Oh, I think it is more than that, Margaret. That's why you didn't want me to see it.'

'I simply needed to explain the circ.u.mstances to you.'

'Explain? What explanation could you possibly give?' I see with dismay that he is near to tears. 'What a fool I've been! I imagined that you were innocent as the day. And yet, here you are naked, seducing this man!'

I'm horrified by his language and by the anger that throbs through his voice. 'What do you mean, Robert seducing? I was just a child!'

'But you have confessed it here in this very room this very room, Margaret! You knew you were in a tainted state a great sin, you said. Perhaps a mortal sin. You even suggested we should end our marriage on account of it.'

'But I didn't mean this!' I gesture at the photograph; Daisy looking up so brightly, insensible of the storm raging around her. 'This is not what I meant. This is nothing!'

His face is a picture of misery. 'Nothing? You mean I'm even more mistaken about you?'

I'll have to confess it now. I try to keep my voice calm; it's Robert's voice that has been raised this time. 'Yes, Robert, you have been mistaken. And it all has to do with Papa.'

He cuts me off with a groan. 'Please don't try to blame your father, Margaret. That is a low and wretched thing to do.' Then, as if it suddenly occurs to him: 'Don't tell me the poor man saw this picture?'

'He saw them all.'

'All?'

'John Jameson said to keep them secret, but Papa found them somehow. Oh, Robert, that's what started it all or made it worse. I can't exactly remember, it was all so confused '

'There are more photographs? More like this?' He looks wildly around. 'Oh, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, what have you done? No wonder your poor father haunts your dreams. Oh poor man, poor man . . .' He is lost for words.

I don't know what to say either. I'm horrified that Robert finds it so hard to believe that Papa was capable of wrongdoing, yet is so ready to think me a child seductress because I have taken off my clothes, and am trying to look pleasant for a photograph. And I see with a dreadful clarity how different the world is for a man and a woman, and how easily a man escapes censure while a young girl is condemned. Robert should be taking my part, I think. He is my husband. He said he loved me. He said we should step out together in good heart, and that we would triumph in the end. He should be up in arms now to defend and protect me against the world. But he looks already hopeless and beaten. I put my hand on his arm. 'Please, Robert,' I say.

He shakes it off. 'No,' he says thickly. 'Don't touch me. Go away.'

I see that his whole world is dissolving, just as mine once did. And he, too, is falling into a deep, black hole where nothing is as it seems and everything he once thought was true is now altered beyond recognition.

I go, and close the door behind me.

20.

JOHN JAMESON.

After much thought and deliberation, I have written to Daisy asking if she will come to tea with me. I advised her that Benson is no longer with us and that Dinah, poor thing, has seen the last of her mousing days, but otherwise my set of rooms is much as it was when she last set her dainty foot in it. What I did not tell her was that, although many other little friends have pa.s.sed happy afternoons here over the years and some have been sweet and some have been clever none holds my imagination as she does. She was the first and the best and the most enduring of my child-loves. And now that she is married (and happily beyond her mother's control), she may visit me here without any feelings of constraint.

I am already somewhat excited, although I don't know if she will accept, or indeed whether she will still have any of the qualities that so endeared her to me when she was a child. Maybe she will be bored at the prospect of a college tea with a dull and none-too-youthful mathematician, and will make a polite excuse. I shall be disappointed if so, but I am used to such disappointments: the irony of my life is that all children grow up, and most of them go away and leave me. But I have learned to enjoy my child-friendships for what they are: delicious, certainly but transitory and brief. If Daisy declines my invitation, I shall have to make do with all the new Daisies who write to me and beg me to take their photographs.

In truth, there are more of them than I know what to do with and sometimes I wish I had a machine that could write letters for me, so I need only speak into an ear-trumpet in order to convert my thoughts to paper. That would save a great deal of my time. As it is, I have to labour conscientiously over each reply, not knowing if the Edna or Ellen or Esme I am replying to is a child who is worth cultivating or not. I wish I could see a picture of each of them before I reply; I would not wish to encourage the acquaintance of an ill-made child. And I cannot always gauge if a particular one is intelligent or not; frequently the mama will direct the child's pen, hoping to flatter me with some compliment, or engage my attention with some clever pun. I would far rather make the acquaintance of a child face-to-face in the park, or on a train, or at the seaside. But since my books have become such a success, I am besieged with epistles from the length and breadth of the country, and I am obliged to reply. Sometimes they write to me as James St-John Clark, and over and over again I have to make it clear that no such person exists. When I write my narratives, I tell them, I use the nom de plume of St-John Clark; but in my real life I am the Reverend John Jameson, and it is in my real-life capacity that I keep up all my acquaintance. I should therefore be most obliged, I say, if they would address me in the correct manner. The lodge porter knows my views and says, 'Three letters for Mr St-John Clark, today, sir. Will you be so kind as to pa.s.s them on to him if you're not too busy he's a devil of a man for not collecting his own mail.'

Smith-Jephcott describes my att.i.tude as 'tetchy' and says it is a wonder that children are not put off by my fussy ways and hair-splitting. 'It is only your reputation that saves you,' he says. 'When you write your children's stories you are whimsical and witty, but in daily life you are a maiden aunt, and a vinegary one at that.' Smith-Jephcott has not improved over the years, merely become fatter and more slovenly. He still occupies the rooms below me and takes a delight in waylaying my little visitors and making impolite remarks as they climb the stairs to my door. 'Don't think you're especially lucky,' he calls out. 'You're the third Amelia to take tea this week and the other two were prettier.' I have been obliged to make use of my pocket-handkerchief on more than one occasion to staunch the tears of a disconsolate seven-year-old.

But I've a feeling my Daisy will come. I suspect that she feels as I do, that our acquaintance was rudely even cruelly terminated. If she comes but once, it will at least make a proper end to our friendship. She must have read Daisy's Daydream. She must know how much of our outings together I have put into that story. And I hope that, in spite of everything, she was able to read that first little fragment that I sent her when she was ill a crude attempt, admittedly, and one I would never wish to see in print, but my first venture into literature, and inspired only by her. I hardly remember it now. I pa.s.sed the only copy into Daniel's hands and it seems to have gone astray but I like to imagine she was able to read it and recognize the ten-year-old child whose hair grows and grows until it fills the whole house. I like to think that she recognized all the creatures who came to live in it all the animals and people we used to talk about on our walks a talking cat, a crying baby, a cruel nursemaid, a not-so-dead dodo, hundreds of beetles, scarlet flamingos and the dons playing croquet in the quad. I so wanted to read it to her, to see her laugh and say, 'Why, that might almost have happened to me!' But of course that was not allowed.

It was indeed a dreadful day for me when I visited her for the last time. I'd returned to Oxford with Mr Warner, in turmoil as to what I should find. In truth, I was fearful as much for my own skin as for Daniel's state of mind, although the latter did cause me concern. Apart from our ties of friendship, I did not like to think of the office of clergyman becoming besmirched with scandal in any way. But selfishly (and I own I am selfish) I was preoccupied with what Mrs Baxter might know, and how I might explain myself. Once more I was finding myself obliged to exonerate myself from actions I did not in the least regret.

When we arrived at the station, I sent my luggage on to the college with a note for Benson, and accompanied Mr Warner immediately to Westwood Gardens. I argued to myself that although Mrs Baxter had urged me not to write to her husband or daughter, she had not expressly forbidden me to visit them, and therefore I was not disobeying her wishes in attending at the vicarage. I also felt the presence of the bluff Mr Warner would act as a conversational buffer; she could hardly snub me in front of him, and I doubted she would mention the photographs (if indeed she had found them) on the same principle.

The house looked the same as it had five weeks previously the shrubs neat, the bra.s.s polished and Hannah answered the door as usual. 'Oh, Mr Warner!' she said, surprised. And then, with more surprise, 'And Mr Jameson, too!'

'Is Mr Baxter at home?' said Warner, diplomatically.

'No, I'm afraid he's not well, sir,' she said, a distracted look in her eye. 'He's not supposed to have visitors neither.'

'Is Mrs Baxter in a position to see us?' Mr Warner asked. 'We have come all the way from north Devon to be of a.s.sistance.'

Hannah seemed undecided what to do, as if under strict orders to admit n.o.body, but chastened at the presence of two such urgent visitors who had come such a long way for the purpose. But seeing Mr Warner not standing on ceremony as usual, and about to step over the threshold w.i.l.l.y-nilly, she took our hats and ushered us into the drawing room, saying she would see if her mistress could be disturbed. We both stood there awkwardly, in the centre of the room, among the potted plants and plush hangings, feeling the seriousness of the occasion prevented us from sitting down.

'Does well for himself,' said Warner, eyeing the furnishings.

'I believe Mrs Baxter has some money,' I replied, sensing the criticism implied. 'But I take it from your remarks that you have not been a regular visitor to the house.'

'Never had a need,' he answered. 'Did all my church business in the parish hall or at the vestry meetings. Annie used to visit sometimes to play with their girl, but Deedee would escort her back and forth. My wife has been here the usual teatime calls and so on, but she found Mrs Baxter' he lowered his voice 'well, a little too refined and poetic. A little distant, to tell you the truth. Fine-looking woman, though.'

We were still whispering like conspirators when Mrs Baxter came into the room. She looked extremely agitated, and her costume was rather disordered. 'How good of you to come all this way, Mr Warner,' she said, taking him by the hands. 'And Mr Jameson.' She turned to me somewhat stiffly. 'I did not expect you.'

Warner bl.u.s.tered on. 'We heard, ma'am, via my future son-in-law, who only this morning arrived in Devon and informed us of the case, that Mr Baxter had been taken seriously ill and was unable to perform his duties. It seemed that there might be matters on which we could a.s.sist at least on which I could a.s.sist. Mr Jameson is not a parishioner, of course, although as a friend of your husband he would not be dissuaded from coming with me.'

'I am sure I am obliged to Mr Jameson for his consideration,' she said in an even tone, not looking at me. 'But my husband is unable to see anyone at all at present. The doctor has given him a sleeping draught. He needs complete rest. He is overwrought, that is all.' She gestured for us to sit down, and we did so, but she remained standing, fretting a little, and casting glances at the door, as if expecting some sound or person to erupt from elsewhere in the house.

'I am very sorry,' Warner replied. 'Is this a sudden, um indisposition of his?'

'I was not present when he was first affected. Indeed, I am at fault for being away when he needed me. Maybe if I had been more insistent in employing a nurse from the hospital to look after our youngest daughter, then matters may not have come to such a head. But Mr Baxter is a devoted father and insisted on nursing her himself. As a result, he is in a state of collapse '

'We are none of us predictors of the future,' said Warner. 'You could not have known, when you went away, that such a situation would have come about. You cannot be blamed for taking a holiday. You might as well say I should not have gone on holiday myself, in case a crisis arose in the parish.'

'Indeed, you might as well say that no one should ever do anything at all, in case their motives are misinterpreted,' I said.

Mrs Baxter ignored me. 'I am sure there are many in the parish who will see me as remiss. But the servants did not keep me informed of what was happening. If I had been here, I could perhaps have prevented this exhaustion.' She wrung her hands. 'I should have come back four weeks ago; I should have left my son in Herefordshire and returned immediately. But Daniel's letters were always so encouraging. He urged me to stay, to give my aged father the benefit of my company for another week or two. He said that Daisy was recovering, and that he was managing admirably with Hannah helping in the sickroom and Mr Morton taking the services. But it seems he was keeping the true situation from me. And now he is paying the price . . .' Her voice trailed away and I could see she was almost in tears. I was quite surprised to see her affected like this, and for a moment my heart went out to her. But I kept my counsel.

'I am sure you are not to blame, dear lady,' said Warner, gallantly. 'But it seemed from what Bertram my prospective son-in-law said, that Mr Baxter might need quite a little time away from the helm of the ship, so to speak. When the captain is stricken, it's a case of "all hands on deck". Hence, we are at your disposal.'

'Oh, I am quite sure his indisposition is temporary,' said Mrs Baxter, still steadfastly refusing to look at me. 'There was no need for you to interrupt your holiday, Mr Warner. Nor you, Mr Jameson; your presence is quite superfluous.'

Even Warner must have detected the barb beneath her words, and he glanced at me in surprise, but I affected not to notice. 'I am glad to hear it, Mrs Baxter,' I said, thinking of how, not so many weeks before, we were laughing together over a parlour game in this same room, and flirting lightly as our names were coupled in a comical way. There was nothing of the flirt about her now, but I was certain that her coolness to me and the cryptic content of her letters arose entirely from her concern for Daniel, and not from any revelation regarding myself. I tried to be emollient. 'I hope the rest of the family at least are well and that Daisy has recovered from her fever.'

'Thank you. Daisy is quite well. She has a lot to thank her father for.' She said this in such a way that implied Daisy was somehow to blame for being ill. I regarded this as very unfair, but people in extreme agitation are liable to see blame where there is none.

'May I see her?' I said. 'I sent her so many letters from Ilfracombe, and would very much like to know if she received them. I never had a reply, you see. Maybe she was too weak. I know Daisy is too well brought up not to have replied without good reason.'

I watched Mrs Baxter seek for some excuse as to why I should not see the child, but under the watchful eye of Mr Warner, she failed to find one. She went to the mantelpiece and rang for Hannah, who came looking ruffled, and departed again in a quest for Daisy. I could not but help noticing that the house seemed more than usually hushed, but I put that down to the absence of the infant Benjamin.

'Are you sure I cannot be of a.s.sistance?' asked Warner, clearly weighing the apparent normality of the household against the lurid reports of his son-in-law, and no doubt thinking his departure from the seaside had been a little hasty. Of course, he could not mention the alleged mumbling and raving, and nor could I. And Mrs Baxter would clearly have us believe that no such thing had ever taken place.

'Charles Mr Morton will continue to take the services for the time being,' she said. 'But you may wish to consult with Mr Attwood or Mrs Carmichael about other matters. I'm afraid I am not fully apprised of parish affairs.' As she spoke, I could see why the ever-busy Mrs Warner had found her distant and poetic. 'But I am sure,' she said, 'that you need have no concerns. My husband will soon be back at the helm.'

Warner again attempted to offer his help, and she again declined it, but I found myself paying only scant attention to them, as my antic.i.p.ation of seeing Daisy again began to mount. Indeed, my ears were taking a walk into the hallway for any sound of her approach. But when she came through the door I was taken aback. She was like a different child. Her illness had left her extremely thin, and without that delicate softness of outline that characterizes the supreme beauty of childhood. And her eyes had an odd kind of sadness a blankness almost as if she was now privy to a more grown-up world than when we had last met. She seemed taller too, and more sedate. I knew then that she had already begun the journey to womanhood, and that she was fading from me even as I looked at her like one of my ruined photographs, numinous and overexposed.

'Daisy, my dear,' I said, holding out my hands. 'It is so good to see you. You have been in my thoughts so very much.'

She curtseyed, like any well-brought-up young lady in front of a stranger, her once-bright eyes cast down. Not at all like Daisy with her eager enthusiasm not at all like my dear Daisy of yore. 'I'm obliged to you,' she said.

Obliged! When had she started to use such an expression? And where had this new stiffness come from? I tried to steady my voice. 'I am glad you are recovered, my dear. Did you receive my letters from Ilfracombe? I took considerable trouble over them.'

She looked at me, startled out of her composure. 'No,' she said. 'I didn't even know you'd been to Ilfracombe. Isn't that where Annie goes in the summer?' Then she seemed to notice Mr Warner for the first time, and dropped another curtsey. 'How do you do, Mr Warner?'

'Very well, my dear. But you are quite right. We holiday in Ilfracombe every year. But this year we have had the extra pleasure of Mr Jameson's company. He is out all day with my children donkey rides and beach-combing and sketching trips and all manner of entertainment. Mrs Warner and I have hardly seen our youngest three since he turned up. I think I shall strive to engage him for all our future holidays, as I have been able to read my newspaper without interruption and Mrs Warner has netted at least double the amount of mittens she normally manages in three weeks.'

Daisy turned accusing eyes at me. 'You have been at the seaside?' she said. 'With Annie?'