"I am sure the business needs a boost. He must get back lost business. That is what I understand. I thought he looked a little lired. He was quite flushed and very breathless . . . and he talked to me with more vehemence than usual. Mon Dieu! Did you hear that? The clock is striking midnight. These night time chats are good, are they not, but we must not carry them on until the next day. Good night, my precious one."

I was soon fast asleep.

It was two days later when it happened.

It seemed almost as though Grand'mere had known it was coming. Sir Francis was taken ill. He had had a mild stroke from which it appeared he would recover; the unfortunate fact was that he was not in Grantham Square when it had happened.

He was in the house of a Mrs. Darcy in St. John's Wood. Mrs. Darcy had been terrified and had called a doctor at once. He had thought it advisable not to move Sir Francis immediately so he had remained in Mrs. Darcy's house for several days. His own doctor went there. Charles and Philip were sent for. If it had happened in Grantham Square it would have been so much easier, but the significant point was that he had been taken ill at two o'clock in the morning.

Charles took over quite efficiently. He thought it was imperative that his father be brought back to Grantham Square without delay.

This was eventually arranged and everyone breathed more freely, particularly when they knew that Sir Francis would recover.

The Countess was rather voluble to Grand'mere on the subject. A friendship had grown up between them and this seemed to include me. They were together a great deal discussing Julia's requirements and as the Countess agreed that Grand'mere could produce gowns which were more striking, and at the same time elegant, than any dressmaker she knew, there was an immediate rapport between them.

She said she would like to ''bring me out." She thought I had more "originality" than Julia. Julia was too eager. "Trying too hard," she called it, "and showing it." "It's a social sin to show one's eagerness," she explained. "One must not miss an opportunity, of course, one must be alert, but assume indifference. It is not easy to achieve the right attitude but it is the way to success." And she thought I would do this better than Julia.

During our conversations she became very frank about her self and she had a racy turn of expression which was not exactly what one would have expected from a Countess.

"I was not born to the purple," she said, when she was in a confidential mood. "Plain Dulcie Dorman me. I had a way with me which the men seemed to like . . . particularly the old men. There are some who attract the young, some the middle-aged, but for me it was the old ones. I was on the stage. It was the only thing for a girl like me ... good looking with her wits about her. The Earl saw me. He was quite a duck really ... a bit doddering ... all of thirty-five years older than I was. But he doted on me ... and if mere was one thing I liked it was being doted on. So I married him. . . and for five years I looked after him. Quite fond of him, I was . . . and there was I, the Countess, living with my old Earl in a house nearly as big as Paddington Station and as draughty. It wasn't exactly comfort, but I liked being a lady. Then he died and what was there for me? Debts . . . debts . . . debts and a distant cousin turning up to take the house. As for me, I was pretty nearly on my uppers ... but not quite, so I looked about to see what I could do. I was at least the Countess of Ballader and that was a good deal. So I took up this business of looking after girls. I soon learned about it and I'd had some good clients. And here I am. I'Ve had my ups and downs. . .and I'm glad of it. I've been plain Dulcie Dorman who could high kick with the best. . . and I've been the Earl's lady. I've seen life from both sides, you might say. That's a help. It makes you understand people's troubles. One thing I've learned is don't judge or blame . . . because you can only get half the story, anyway. Take Sir Francis." She smiled at us benignly. "I liked him. I knew how things were. It's lucky it worked out fairly well. If he had died in the lady's bed, the fat would have been in the fire. Julia's presentation would have had to be postponed. Of course there haven't been the rigid conventions at Court since Albert died. He was responsible for that strict moral tone; he liked to visit the sins of the fathers on the children. Her Majesty is not really so strict. But if he had died in his mistress's bed, how should we have been able to keep the press away from such a spicy piece of news. Yes, that would have put a finish to Julia's debut."

"This relationship," said Grand'mere, "is it of long standing?"

''Oh years and years. It's been a steady affair. There's nothing promiscuous about Sir Francis. Poor Mrs. Darcy, she is very upset."

We were to extend our stay on account of Sir Francis's illness and we should be in London for at least another week. In one of our nightly chats, Grand'mere talked to me about Sir Francis.

"As the Countess says, one must not blame him," she said. "He is a good man. He loved Mrs. Darcy and she him. It was like a marriage."

"But what of Lady Sallonger?"

"Lady Sallonger is married to her ailments. You see how it is. After Cassie's birth she wanted no more children. There are needs in a man's life . . . and if he cannot have them where he expects to, he looks elsewhere." "So Sir Francis looked to Mrs. Darcy?" "That would seem so," she said. "He must not be blamed. He looks after Lady Sallonger. All her whims are granted. There was no unkindness . . . and unkindness is the real sin." There flashed into my mind the memory of Charles running up the steps and looking back at me in the frightening darkness; I thought of the boys who had killed Willie's dog. She was right. Unkindness was the real sin.

Charles was in the house but I had lost my fear of him. He treated me when we met in that cool manner which indicated that he had no interest in me and no longer felt rancour. It was different with Philip. He was pleased to see me.

The two brothers spent a great deal of time with their father, who, although confined to his bed, where he would be for at least a month, was well enough to receive visitors; and as he was anxious to talk to his sons, the doctor came to the conclusion that to try to prevent that would have distressed Sir Francis too much.

I gathered there was a great deal to talk about.

Grand'mere said mat decisions were being made. Philip was very serious, but he was especially charming to me. When i came down to breakfast one morning he was there alone. His face lit up when he saw me.

He said: "I'm so glad you are here, Lenore. So much is happening really."

"You mean because of your father?"

He nodded. Then he gave me that very pleasant smile of his. "I always like talking to you. You always seem to understand. This is going to make a great difference. Both Charles and I have done with education from now on. Well, it's about time. It is really what I wanted and I have been urging my father to allow it for some time. Charles and I are going into the business at once."

"Yes, I rather thought that would be so."

''Our father is recovering but he will never be the same again. The doctor says he will have to take great care. This is a warning. So from now on we are in the business. Of course I didn't want it to happen this way. However, I want to talk to you some time." He looked round. "It's not easy here. Perhaps we could go somewhere."

"Where?" I asked.

"We could go down to Greenwich. I love the river. There is an inn there I know-the Crown and Sceptre. They say the whitebait there are the best in London.'' He grimaced. "I'd like us to go alone. But I suppose that is out of the question."

I did not answer.

"We'll have to have a chaperone," he went on, "or it would he considered improper.''

"Well then, if you want to talk we might as well do it here."

"We'll take your grandmother along. She'll know what I'm talking about."

"That would be lovely."

Julia came down.

"Hello," said Philip. "Getting ready for the fray?"

Julia helped herself from the sideboard. "The Countess is quite a dragon," she said. "I get little peace."

"All in a good cause," said Philip lightly.

"You're lucky," said Julia, glancing at me. "You don't have to suffer like this. I shall never get my weight down and those corsets are killing me."

"I shouldn't eat all that bacon then if I were you," Philip advised.

"I have to keep my strength up. I think that lavender coloured brocade your grandmother has bought is lovely."

"It's beautiful," I agreed, "and have you seen the style it's going to be made in?"

"Oh no. They don't think it is necessary to consult me. Your grandmother and the Countess are like a couple of old witches doing this and that. . . and never letting me know a thing."

"I'm sure my grandmother would show you all the patterns if you wished to see them.''

"Sometimes I'm sick of the whole thing, and I want to go home. Then there will be all the balls and things ..."

"You'll love them," I said. "You know it is what you have always wanted."

''I thought I did . . . till now.'' She sighed and helped herself to more bacon.

"It won't be a young lady the Countess has to launch, it will be an elephant," said Philip with brotherly candour, for there was no doubt that she was putting on weight. I think her nervousness made her eat more than otherwise she would have done.

I left them at the table but Philip caught me up.

"Perhaps today," he said. "The late afternoon and we'll get there about half past six. You'll enjoy it. Ask your grandmother."

When I told Grand'mere she seemed very pleased.

"I like him," she said. "He's the best of the bunch."

Since she was so pleased I could look forward to the evening with even greater pleasure.

Philip was an expert with the oars. He said he liked rowing and had had plenty of practice at the University, so we could trust ourselves with him.

"I shall be in London a great deal now," he told us. "This morning I have been to Spitalfields. There is a lot to be learned.''

Grand'mere said: "Your brother does not share your enthusiasm."

"True," agreed Philip. "In a way I'm rather pleased. I fancy it will give me a freer hand. I should hate interference."

"He will be a sort of sleeping partner," I said.

"Even the most prosperous business cannot afford sleeping partners,'' stated Grand'mere. "It is necessary for all to do their share."

''I don't think he has the feeling for silk ... or for business. Charles ought to go into Parliament... or law or something."

"I am sure you will be successful," I told him.

His brow clouded a little. "Do you know," he said, "I think my father's stroke was brought about through anxiety."

"I think that could be very likely," agreed Grand'mere.

"Do you mean he was worried about business?" I asked.

Philip nodded. "Things are not quite what they should be. I wouldn't say this to anyone else, but you have always understood, Lenore, and as for you, Madame Cleremont, you are part of the business. No, certainly things are not what they should be."

"I gathered that from your father some time ago," said Grand'mere.

"It's these foreign imports," Philip explained. "Sales of our silks have declined and they go on declining."

"Do you think there should be a duty on foreign goods?" I asked.

He was thoughtful. "It would be useful, of course. We could then price our materials higher. We would not have to compete so rigorously. But whether one believes in free trade or not is a big question. One has to ask oneself whether one would wish for it on other commodities. It would hardly be fair to expect a tariff on what suits us. Do we want it on silk because we are limping along?"

"What we need," put in Grand'mere, "is to find some new style of weaving . . . something that produces a beautiful material . . . better in every way from what we have already."

"A secret method," I suggested.

"Exactly!" cried Philip, his eyes shining. "A secret method of producing something which has never been produced before with no one else knowing how it is done."

"Wouldn't they soon discover?" I asked.

"They might, but they would not be allowed to use it. There is such a thing as a patent. It prevents people by law from stealing someone else's invention."

"What a good thing!"

"First we have to find the invention," said Philip ruefully. "Oh, here we are."

We tied up the boat and climbed the stairs to the footpath.

"Greenwich has always appealed to me," said Philip, "because it was one of the headquarters used by the Huguenot refugees. I always wonder whether my ancestors came here before they went to Spitalfields. They even have their own chapel here. I don't think it is in existence now. And here is the Crown and Sceptre."

The inn had bow windows to enable those seated there to get a good view of the river.

"They are noted for their whitebait," said Philip, "so we must have that. Do you like whitebait, Madame Cleremont?"

"It depends," replied Grand'mere. "It has to be freshly caught, I believe."

"You can rely on that here."

The innkeeper's wife came up to talk to us. She knew Philip so obviously he was a frequent visitor. He would like to think of his ancestors coming here all those years ago.

''I was assuring my friends that the whitebait would be fresh,'' he said.

"Why, bless you," said the woman. "This morning it was swimming in the sea."

"And you have the secret of cooking them just as they should be."

"Oh, it is no secret. It is the only way to serve whitebait to my mind. I remember my mother throwing them into a layer of flour, all spread out on a cloth and shaking them to make sure they were all covered. Then they are thrown into a cauldron of boiling fat ... just for a minute or so ... then drain 'em off and they're ready to eat. Now you must be quick or they'll lose their crispness. Served up with a sprinkling of lemon and a dash of cayenne pepper and they're a real treat. And they should be washed down with the right liquid . . . say, some punch or iced champagne."

"Which shall it be?" asked Philip.

We settled for the iced champagne.

Over this, Philip said:' 'My brother and I are going to France shortly. My father is hoping that our connections in Villers-Mure will let us work there for a short while. He is sure that we have a great deal to learn . . . discover how other people do things ... get new ideas for the business." He looked at Grand'mere. "It is your old home. What do you think? Is it a good idea?"

"It's always useful to find out how people do things in other countries," said Grand'mere.

"I wish we could produce right from the very start. I've often thought we should set up in India or China, which is the right sort of environment. In some parts of China I believe the silkworm is reared out of doors. That would surely get the best results. As it is we have to import our raw materials."

''Even in Villers-Mure they have to have artificial heat for the mulberries," said Grand'mere. "It is really cheaper to have the materials brought into the country and concentrate on the weaving."

"Of course you are right," said Philip. He turned to me. "Are we boring you with all this talk, Lenore?"

"Not in the least."

"Lenore is interested in silk and I think she has a special feeling for the finished product," said Grand'mere.

"I expect you will be coming up to town quite a lot now."

''Why?'' asked Grand'mere.

"Well, Julia will be here."

"She will not need us," I said. "She will be involved in social activities."