Visitors At Sunny Bay House

31

Visitors At Sunny Bay House

    Ruth had decided to go out early to pick samphire. Nan had not a clue what this plant might be and from Ruth’s description she strongly doubted it was edible, but— Well, she could come to no harm wandering along the shore of little Sunny Bay—and almost anything would be a welcome change from Rani’s kitcheree! Or at the least, a welcome addition to it. Even Johnny, who usually obediently ate whatever was put before him, had refused point-blank to eat it for supper yesterday.

    “Rani,” said Nan grimly in Rani’s language as the ayah emerged from the pantry with a bowl of leftover cooked rice, “everyone has had enough of kitcheree, for the time being. We shall have something else for breakfast.”

    Rani opened her mouth to argue, but there must have been something in Nan’s eye as she caught it, for she closed it again.

    “You might use up some of that flour and make samosahs: the children won’t realize if you put the kitcheree mixture in them.”

    Rani burst into an involved speech, in which the utter difference of her samosah mixture from her kitcheree mixture, the unsuitability of samosahs for breakfast, and the poor quality of the local flour all bore a part, but Nan replied grimly; “While you’re doing that, I’ll set some dough to rise. We can have naan for the midday meal, and Jimmy can run up to the farm and buy a chicken to go weeth it.”

    Rani favoured her with a speech on the quality of any and all produce, animate or otherwise, from Longacre Farm, but Nan didn’t listen.

    The samosahs were ready for frying up, the naan dough was being set to rise, and Jimmy, who had long since had his breakfast, was on his way to the farm, when Ruth burst in through the kitchen door, curls flying, panting. “A boat!”

    Nan and Rani rushed outside with her and round to the seaward side of the house. So it was: a big yacht.

    Nan began in horror: “Does your Papa own a—?”

    But Ruth shook her head violently.

    “Er—een that case, there ees an even chance of eet’s being Captain Quarmby-Vine or Prince Henri-Louis.”

    “But I thought Mr Baldaya wrote to the prince!” she gulped.

    “Yes, but that was barely three days ago: would a letter have reached heem?”

    Rani, meanwhile, burst into a complex speech in which her undying loyalty to Nanni baba, her determination to die in defence of Ruth Missy’s virtue if necessary, and the probability of Richpal’s being able to shoot the invaders with Dom baba’s pistol were featured about equally. With a passing reference to the carving knife.

    Unemotionally Nan informed the ayah in her language that the carving knife would be of more use than that spoon she was waving, but there was no need of it, as that was a pleasant gentleman whom they knew. There came a panting noise from behind them, and she turned, winced, and duly informed Krishna in his language that it was a friend, and he should take that fork back to the stables.

    Krishna, however, stood his ground. Though he did ground the pitchfork.

    Rolling her eyes only slightly, Nan removed her apron, thrust it at Rani, and set off down the field to greet Captain Quarmby-Vine. Crumpled print gown, tousled curls, smudge of flour on the nose and all.

    The burly Captain did not appear at all displeased to be met by this vision. On the contrary: he beamed all over his florid face, apologizing profusely for his invasion at this early hour of the morning: but he thought Lady Benedict, Mr Baldaya and their family might care to breakfast aboard, if they had not already—

    Nan explained that Dom had had to escort the girls to their friend’s house.

    The Captain was horribly overcome, for visiting an unprotected lady in this manner was not at all the thing! Though his sister was aboard, so—?

    Nan cast but a fleeting glance at the idea of inviting the Captain and his party to breakfast with them on Rani’s samosahs, and accepted the invitation graciously. With the proviso that she and Miss Smith should change their gowns.

    Of course! Though if he might say so, they both looked charmingly—charmingly!—A not-quite-avuncular beam.—And they must on no account neglect to bring the little ones aboard!

    At least there would be nothing along the lines of recooked rice and dal on Captain Quarmby-Vine’s yacht. “Aboard,” rather. Resignedly Nan went off to change into a sprig muslin and a pretty straw bonnet and to force Mina, Amrita and Johnny into some respectable garments. Captain Quarmby-Vine professed himself overcome at the picture she then presented; his widowed sister was self-declaredly delighted to see Lady Benedict again...

    The yacht did eventually “up anchor,” as Captain Quarmby-Vine did not fail to put it, and depart, but not until an advanced hour of the afternoon. Oh, well, the children had enjoyed sailing gently up and down the coast.

    Nan sank onto the sofa in a state of exhaustion. “Ees there any porto een the house?” she groaned, eyes closed.

    Ruth giggled. “It was not that bad!”

    Nan opened one eye. “Rubbeesh. Eet was unspeakably nautical. Oblige me by not breathing the words ‘jeeb’, ‘spar’, ‘mainstay’ or ‘halyard’ een thees house, I beg!”

    Ruth collapsed in giggles.

    The following day dawned clear again, with a fresh breeze. Rani was up very early, pickling the samphire. Ruth’s notion of pickles entailed vinegar and so she looked very dubiously at what the ayah was doing, which seemed to involve quantities of salt and oil, but Nan, advising her kindly not to ask, led her gently away.

    The household was reduced to breakfasting outdoors, in the field. The house had become uninhabitable. It was not that it had filled with the smell of boiling vinegar, of course: it was rather the mood that Rani was in. Even though the children had eaten up the samosahs for their supper last night with every evidence of enjoyment.

    The chicken, of course, had not been needed. A trifle unfortunately Jimmy had acquired a live one: possibly because, as Rani had not failed to point out, no-one had told him in so many words to ask the farmer’s wife to kill, draw and pluck it. Mina and Amrita had named it Henrietta Hen and it was now wandering about happily with a string affixed to its leg, complete with a small silver Indian bell which had come off an anklet of Rani’s, so it did not look as if they could look forward to roast chicken or chicken pullow. Nor could they look forward to fresh eggs: “Henrietta” or no, it was a capon.

    “I miss Pug Chalfont,” said Mina glumly, holding out a handful of tepid kitcheree to Henrietta Hen. The capon pecked happily at it, not seeming to mind that the grains were cooked and lightly spiced.

    Nan winced slightly. “Mm.”

    “He was vairy well-trained, een the end,” said Amrita sadly.

    Nan managed a sickly smile. “Mm.”

    Ruth gave a smothered giggle.

    “When we go back to Bath—” began Mina, looking hopefully at Nan.

    “No!” interrupted Amrita. “We could have Spotty, instead!” She paused. “Or as well.” She looked hopefully at Nan.

    Nan took a deep breath.

    “Mr Laidlaw found out who owned him,” Mina reminded her small aunt sadly.

    “Yes, but that old lady ees not taking heem for walks!” she said, still looking hopefully at Nan.

    “Amrita, we are not going to adopt old Miss Amberley’s Sp—Montgomery,” said Nan firmly, though with a slight falling-off towards the end.

    Mina reminded the company that the junior Mrs Amberley had had one of Mr Ninian’s pugs but that Mr Amberley had made her take it b—

    Ruth, who had held up wonderfully so far, oddly collapsed in giggles at this.

    “The theeng ees,” said Nan on a grim note when she was over them, “that although Mr Ninian’s own leetle dogs are vairy well behaved, eet ees manifestly not an easy task, to train up a—”

    “Yes!” squeaked Ruth, collapsing in giggles again.

    “—young pug,” finished Nan with a sigh. “Vairy well, as soon as we are back een Bath I shall ask Mr Ninian about a pug,” she groaned. When the ecstatic huzzas had died down she added without hope: “But you must find someone who weell help you to train eet up to obey from the vairy moment we acquire eet. –Eef not sooner,” she muttered over the loud assurances that of course, Mina and Amrita could train it themselves!

    “Well, what shall we do today?” said Ruth cheerfully. She held out a piece of cooled chupattee to Henrietta Hen, smiling. –Nan had grudgingly been permitted to cook a pile of chupattees on one corner of the stove this morning. Normally when Rani was in charge no-one was allowed to cook these but the ayah herself, and they were brought to the table hot, in relays. Nan had had to do sufficient to last out the whole breakfast. She had wrapped them in napkins but even so they had cooled very quickly. And hardened.

    Amrita and Mina were torn between walking into Underdene to see if there was any mail and to buy unwholesome English sweetmeats from Mrs Pincher’s shop behind Rani’s back, calling on Mr Ned Grundy to see if he felt like taking his dinghy out, and driving all the way over to Stamforth town to inspect the bottled exhibits in the apothecary’s shop, and to buy unwholesome English sweetmeats behind Rani’s back.

    “Perhaps we should ask Nan what she would like to do,” said Ruth with a smile after the shouting had died down.

    “Stamforth, Mamma!” urged Mina.

    “But that weell take most of the day, and Dom’s due back today, don’t you want stay home for heem?” said Nan feebly.

    They had forgotten that. There was a short conference in which the words “Mrs Urqhart”, “jullerbees”, and “barfees” might have been discerned. Then the vote was cast in favour of not going in to Stamforth today, but tomorrow, because Dom was going in, wasn’t he, and they could all meet up with Colonel Vane!

    “Perhaps he weell give us the ordinary!” cried Amrita.

    “Yes! Huzza for Colonel Vane!” cried Mina.

    When the cheering had died down Nan said uncertainly: “I don’t theenk he meant for us all to meet heem at the Stamforth Arms, my dears, but only Dom.”

    When the loud contradicting and the cries of anguish had died down, Nan conceded: “Vairy well, then: eef Dom says you may go weeth heem, you may.”

    When the cheering had died down Ruth pointed out with a smile: “That does not solve the problem of today, however!”

    “I vote for anytheeng that weell get us out of Rani’s way,” sighed Nan.

    “Yes,” Ruth agreed, biting her lip. “Um... Perhaps we could borrow the trap from the inn and go on over to Upperdene?”

    Nan had not as yet visited this neighbouring village, which was further inland, west of Stamforth Castle. “We could, but weell eet have a baker’s?”

    Ruth smiled. “Yes; it’s a bigger village than Underdene. Though strangely, its inn is much smaller, with very little stabling.”

    “As long as eet has a baker’s wheech does white rolls! –Wait: weevilly flour?” said Nan in hollow tones.

    Ruth shook her head, twinkling.

    “Wonderful! Upperdene eet shall be!”

    Alfred Weddle was deputed to stay with Rani, largely on the score that she would enjoy having him to bully, and Richpal was deputed to escort the party. Ruth looked in complete awe at the sight of the tail, dashing, bearded Richpal sitting a horse in his white uniform and winged turban.

    “Ees he not magneeficent?” said Nan in her ear. “He ees a Sikh, of course: they are generally wonderfully striking-looking men, though they tend to become enormously stout een later life.”

    Ruth did not understand what a Sikh was, but she nodded silently, reflecting that in the unlikely event of Papa’s having tracked them down to this obscure corner of Sussex, one look at Richpal on his horse with a pistol in his belt would give him pause!

    Very naturally the resultant cortège made quite an impression in Upperdene. One or two of the older inhabitants, indeed, were driven to make signs as of warding off the Black One—even though Mrs Vicar had endeavoured to impress upon them that this was a superstition that could well be discontinued.

    The Reverend Mr Brownloe himself was not of such an incurably optimistic temperament as his gentle wife, and he watched old Granfer Perkiss’s gesture with a certain wry resignation, only remarking to Lord Stamforth as he did so: “I think this sight will add considerable weight to the colourful rumours which have come over to us from Underdene.”

    His Lordship replied on an odd note; “You mean add fuel to the flames already being fanned by your respected colleague, Thwaites, I collect.”

    “Er—yes,” admitted Mr Brownloe, looking at his patron sideways.

    “She is a respectable widow who happens to have some Indian servants,” said Lewis grimly.

    “Of course, my Lord,” replied the Reverend Mr Brownloe limply.

    Lewis bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, Brownloe. Perhaps you would do me the favour of stressing the point to Thwaites, next time you see him.”

    “Certainly, my Lord. I—er—I did collect that Mr Thwaites was concerned because the household at Sunny Bay House does not attend divine service.”

    “Possibly you could add to your goodness by apprising him of the point that the whole world does not consist of communicating members of the Church of England.”

    Mr Brownloe’s jaw sagged. “I shall do my best, my Lord, but—er—if your Lordship  failed to—to get the point across—”

    “She is half-Portuguese: I suppose— Never mind,” he said grimly. “Pray continue with what you were saying about the bell tower.”

    The Vicar of Upperdene was neither a naïve nor an insensitive man and by this time he was fully expecting Viscount Stamforth to excuse himself and cross the little village square to join the lady from Sunny Bay House. He jumped slightly. “Uh—yes. Well, if your Lordship is serious about effecting repairs—”

    Lewis drew him back inside the little church. “Certainly I am serious. Pray go on.”

    Mr Brownloe obediently went on. But he raised a mental eyebrow or two.

    White bread rolls and a crusty cottage loaf having been purchased from the baker, a fine cheese and two pounds of apples acquired from the small village shop, and a selection of unwholesome English sweetmeats bought and consumed behind Rani’s back, the party returned home and settled themselves in the scant shade of the small tree in Sunny Bay House’s field with some much-needed refreshments.

    Nan was just handing round pieces of fresh cottage loaf when Richpal gave a great cry and sprang to his feet, his hand going to the pistol in his belt.

    “Sit down, eet’s only Captain Quarmby-Vine again, you seelly,” groaned Nan.

    Richpal pointed out that this was a different boat, Nanni Begum!

    Nan screwed up her eyes. “Er... “

    Excitedly Amrita agreed it was different!

    “The odds are all in favour of it’s being Captain Quarmby-Vine: we have just sat down to a meal,” noted Ruth.

    “Yes!” said Nan with a laugh.

    “No, it’s quite different!” cried Mina scornfully.

    “Een that case, eet’s Henri-Louis!” she said fatalistically.

    Ruth looked in dismay from her own crumpled and very faded blue print gown that had once been Susan’s, to Nan’s even more crumpled and almost as faded brown print. Not to mention Nan’s crumpled and not particularly clean apron, and rolled-up sleeves. Not to mention Nan’s large straw hat, originally the property of, presumably, some previous summer tenant of Sunny Bay House. It was not a lady’s hat.

    Nan met her eye, and shrugged.

    Ruth bit her lip, but also gave a smothered giggle.

    Sure enough, it was Henri-Louis, accompanied by M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes. Both horribly ship-shape in nankeens and blue jackets. However, neither of them appeared dismayed by the domestic picture under the tree. In fact it was true to say that their faces lit up and their eyes sparkled. And, indeed, pausing only to send the sailor who was in attendance back to the yacht for the cold duckling and strawberries and cream that would otherwise go to waste, and to assure Mina and Amrita that of course they could go for a sail later, they forthwith joined the picknickers.

    “Well?” said Ruth with a naughty look on her pretty little heart-shaped face much later that afternoon, as Nan sank onto the sofa in a state of exhaustion.

    “I would say, oblige me by not mentioning thees visit to Dom, but there ees no hope whatsoever that he weell not have a full account of eet weetheen five minutes of hees arrival,” she groaned.

    “Yes!” said Ruth with a laugh. She hesitated. “Er… he is very late, is he not?”

    “No,” groaned Nan: “he ees just vairy Dom: hees appointment with Colonel Vane ees not unteell eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. You weell see.”

    Ruth did see. At ten-thirty the following morning, by which time the expectable floods of tears at not after all having the great treat of accompanying Dom to the town to see the bottled corpses at the apothecary’s and eat the ordinary with Colonel Vane had duly eventuated, a groom from the Stamforth Arms rode up with a message. Dom had thought, since he had to come through the town in any case—

    Assurances that it was not Nan’s fault and there was nothing she could do about it were not met with complaisance.

    The day was very much advanced by the time Dom did arrive, and although it had started out sparkling clear, it was now clouded over, with ominous rumblings of thunder from over the Channel. Appropriate to the mood, it was felt by some.

    Mr Baldaya greeted those of the Sunny Bay House party who had emerged onto the patch of gravel before the front step to meet him, with: “Hulloa. Brought Colonel Vane weeth me, dare say you weell find sometheeng to feed heem on. He can bunk een weeth me.”

    “He weell have to, for I do not eentend to ask Ruth to move out of her room for a veesitor you deed not warn me was coming,” replied Nan grimly.

    “My apologies, Lady Benedict,” said Lewis stiffly.

    “Oh, eet ees not your fault, sir!” she replied smartly.

    Lewis dismounted slowly. –His horse was a feisty-look black, but as Nan had taken very little notice indeed of anything Mrs Pincher had said to her of New Lord, the point did not ring any bells with her.

    “Dear Nan, of course the Colonel must have my room; I can share with the children,” said Ruth quickly.

    “Nonsense, Miss Smith,” said Lewis before Nan could utter: “I will not hear of it. How are you? You’re looking well.”

    Ruth was manifestly fluttered: she blushed and stammered, smiling shyly up at him.

    Nan took a deep breath, directed a bitter look at her miscreant of a brother, and said: “Come along een, before eet rains. I hope you are partial to rice pullow, Colonel Vane.”

    “Chicken pullao?” asked Dom hopefully.

    “Huh!” retorted his sister bitterly, turning her back on him and marching inside.

    “The children have made a pet of the chicken that Jimmy was told to buy, Mr Baldaya,” explained Ruth weakly.

    Dom gave a shout of laughter and put his arm through Colonel Vane’s. ““Welcome to our home, sir, and do not say I deedn’t give you fair warning! –Een you go, Miss Smeeth, queeck!”

    Ruth hurried in, smiling, as the rain suddenly hurled itself upon them, and Richpal and Jimmy hustled the horses away to the stable. Dom and the Colonel followed arm-in-arm, Dom grinning all over his face and Lewis smothering a chuckle.

    “I weell say thees,” said Dom much later that evening, leaning back in his armchair with a sigh: “when Rani puts her best foot forward, she can produce a slap-up meal.”

    “Indeed,” agreed Lewis with a twinkle in his eye. “Even without the participation of Henrietta Hen. –It’s a capon, by the way.”

    “We know that,” replied his hostess grimly.

    Shaking slightly, Lewis said: “Do the little girls not understand?”

    “They named eet before anyone knew of what they were doing, een fact they had adopted eet and belled eet before anyone knew— Why am I telling you thees?” she groaned. “Eef you do not understand at your age that children are like that, you weell never understand!”

    Lewis’s harsh-featured face flushed slightly, but he said only: “Of course: dense of me. –You are certainly right, Mr Baldaya: it was a wonderful meal. The pickles and chutneys in especial were most intriguing.”

    Nan’s and Ruth’s eyes met: they gulped and collapsed in giggles.

    “What have I said?” asked Lewis with a smile.

    “No notion, sir. But eet weell be sometheeng to do weeth the kitchen arrangements,” Dom assured him.

    “Yes!” squeaked Nan helplessly, fanning her face with her hand. “Oh, dear! The day Dom and the girls visited the castle, I stayed behind to help Sita and Rani make plum chutney—well, to keep the peace, really! The brownish-red one was eet. Eet ees rather new, but we had not thought to bring anytheeng like that weeth us. The yellow peeckle was cauliflower, of course. And, um, we had a dreadful day yesterday, sir, Rani immured herself een the kitchen to make a peeckle of—of—” She looked feebly at Ruth.

    Shyly Ruth said: “You will know what samphire is, I expect, Colonel,”.

    “Why, yes, indeed!” he said with a smile. “It grows in profusion hereabouts, does it not? The cook at— My uncle’s cook,” he corrected himself, swallowing, “used to make great jars of it, pickled in a mixture of vinegar and cider.”

    Ruth nodded eagerly, though avoiding Nan’s eye. “Exactly! Near my home in Norfolk the people also eat marsh samphire, which they call glasswort. I think one usually boils the seaside variety, to get rid of some of the salt.”

    “Or eef Rani were your cook, eet would be fried up weeth some onion and a leetle ground jeeruh and turmerick,” noted Dom, getting up. “Porto, sir?”

    “Yes, thank you, that would be delightful. –I thought the green vegetable she did for us tonight was most tasty.”

    “Aye: spinach fried up weeth some onion, ground jeeruh and turmerick,” said Dom drily. “The theeng ees, that ees how she always does a green vegetable!”

    “Well, yes,” admitted Nan, trying not to laugh. “But eet ees a standard receet, een India, Dom.”

    “Not for beans!” he objected.

    One of the dishes this evening had been dried broad beans. Lewis had never tasted them in a curry sauce as the ayah had done them. They had been wonderful; but he said cautiously: “You mean haricots verts, Mr Baldaya?”

    “Out of course. Also cabbage—eet’s revoltin’ done that way—lettuce, beets, turnip tops—uh—what ees saag?” he suddenly demanded of Nan.

    “Not turnip?”

    “No... Theenk I mean mustard leaves,” he said to Lewis.

    “Really?”

    “Aye. Saag ees a vairy popular vegetable een India and I admeet eet’s good done that way, but there ees more than one way of doing eet, nevertheless!”

    Lewis nodded, smiling.

    “What else ees green? Well, no matter, only eef eet be green, she weell do eet that way.”

    “I see!” he said with a laugh.

    “And eef there be any dal and rice left over—”

    “Don’t, Dom,” groaned Nan. “We have been eating kitcheree ever since Sita left.”

    “Well, you could not have let Iris go alone.”

    “No,” she agreed, sighing.

    Dom handed her a glass of porto, smiling. “Here. Eef you’ve been livin’ off Rani’s kitcheree for days, you deserve eet! –Here,” he added to Ruth.

    “Oh!” she gasped. “No, really, I— Is it not very strong, sir?”

    “Uh—strongish. You had best start to get used to eet,” he decided briskly.

    “Yes,” said Nan with an odd little smile. “Get used to eet slowly, Ruth, my dear.”

    The innocent Ruth nodded, and tasted it cautiously.

    It was excellent port: Lewis said so, sipping with appreciation.

    “Aye, eet’s not bad,” Dom agreed. “Had eet off Uncle Érico. Dare say he weell send us more, they ees goin’ back een the autumn, y’know.”

    “I see,” said Lewis slowly, looking dubiously from him to his sister.

    “Uncle Érico theenks that Dom should accompany them,” said Nan.

    “Well, I might,” he said carelessly. “Eef you ees to be fixed een Bath all winter, Portugal might not be a bad option.”

    “You weell be able to see the property and—and decide what you weesh to do.”

    “I know already what I want to do!” he returned with feeling.

    “Dom, you may like the country once you get there.”

    “Eh? Live amongst the yaller-faced Portugee gentry and be married off to some snaggle-toothed cousin because the properties march together or some such dashed nonsense? No, I thank you!”

    “Parts of the countryside are quite wonderful. And I think you will find some of the hillier, drier areas not unlike India,” said Lewis with some difficulty. He stared into the fire and said: “I did not see so very much of Portugal... But parts of Spain are very much like what I would imagine India to be. I have seen a palace there built by the Moors, that—that in part must be not unlike that Red Palace of Ishnapoor which you described to me, Lady Benedict.”

    “Oh, aye? Seen the Alhambra, have you?” returned Dom easily.

    “Mm.” Lewis had realised that Lady Benedict was bereft of speech: he avoided her eye.

    “I own, I should like to see eet, but that apart, you may keep the whole of the Iberian Peninsula.” said Dom cheerfully.

    “Dom, you cannot just deesmiss eet een that way,” said Nan in a low voice.

    “Pooh! Now listen, we ain’t here to argue about Portugal, which neither of us can even remember, remark,” he said with a wink at Ruth, “but to work out a plan of campaign!”

    “A what?” said Nan faintly.

    “Just be quiet, and listen! Now, we have decided that as Colonel Vane can get away after all, he weell bring hees boat round to Sunny B—”

    Mr Baldaya broke off in bewilderment as his sister gave a shriek and she and Miss Norrington collapsed in gales of giggles.

    When they were over them, the two gentlemen revealed that this was, indeed, the plan: they would sail over to Dieppe together in Lewis’s boat and attempt to catch Major Norrington before he joined up with his friend for a sailing holiday. The two ladles, it must be admitted, had visions of the pair of them happily chasing the Major all up and down the English Channel for a month, but kept these to themselves. Colonel Vane would be off early in the morning to fetch his boat round, and they would depart with the afternoon tide.

    “And just what, by the by, ees so funny about hees owning a boat?” asked Dom.

    Nan glanced guiltily at Ruth.

    “Indeed, it was not dear Nan’s fault, Mr Baldaya: no-one could possibly have prevented them!” she said earnestly.

    Groaning, Dom replied: “Go on, who was eet? Put me out of my misery.”

    “First eet was Captain Quarmby-Vine and his sister,” said Nan. scowling horribly, “and eef you theenk I eencouraged heem, let me tell you eet was no such theeng! And you may comfort yourself weeth the fact that eet was unrelentingly nautical and I have never been so bored een my life!”

    Dom collapsed in sniggers. Lewis smiled, but asked politely: “So how did you discourage him, Lady Benedict?”

    She gave him a bitter look and did not reply.

    Ruth swallowed. “Well, she did point to a halyard, and ask him what that was, then, not two minutes after he had finished explaining what a halyard was.”

    Lewis gave a yelp of laughter.

    “Yes,” said Nan, directing another bitter look his way, “but eet deed not answer, for he thought eet merely a manifestation of my charming feminine frailty.”

    “Aye!” he gasped. “Pretty but brainless, like all of ’em! Poor old Charles Q-V.!”

    Gritting her teeth, Nan got up. “I am going to bed. Rani cannot be expected to cook five hundred chupattees alone tomorrow  morning.”

    “We won’t need a month’s provisions, you seelly,” said her brother tolerantly. “And een any case, chupattees won’t last. What we could do weeth ees some har—”

    “Don’t say eet!” snapped his sister, going out.

    Dom looked dubiously from her to Ruth.

    Ruth got up, smiling. “I shall retire, too, if you will  excuse me, sirs. Unfortunately the words ‘hard tack’ figured rather largely in Captain Quarmby-Vine’s convers—”

    There was no need for her to finish the sentence: Mr Baldaya and Colonel Vane had both collapsed in roars of laughter.

    “Look here, though,” said Dom as, Lewis having declared that if he must be up betimes he had no intention of making a night of it, they were both preparing for bed in Dom’s little room.

    Lewis had a fair idea of what was coming. “Mm?”

    “Eef old Q.-V. was first, then who—”

    “In all probability young Henri-Louis. When did you say you wrote him?”

    Dom did arithmetic, his lips moving silently. “Damnation,” he concluded.

    “Mm.”

    Dom fidgeted. Lewis watched him not unsympathetically.

    “Dammit, I’ll ask her!” He hurried out.

    Lewis got slowly into the narrow bed that was destined for Master Dicky Baldaya.

    Dom was back in five minutes, scowling horribly. “Henri-Louis.”

    “Ah.”

    “Oh, what’s the use,” he muttered. He got into bed, scowling, and blew his candle out.

    Lewis was about to blow his out when Dom sat up and said: “Hang on, sir; you ees een the wrong bed!”

    “Rubbish, dear boy, this one is perfectly comfortable.”

    “But Nan said I was on no account to let you take the leetle bed!”

    “Did she?” he murmured. “Don’t tell her, then.”

    Dom opened his mouth but Lewis blew out the candle and said firmly: “And for God’s sake shut it and let’s get some sleep.”

    Dom subsided.

    Lewis lay awake for some time, musing. But it must be admitted that he did not get any further than had the poet who had once written: “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease...” Well, he had seen the ministering angel thing, and he had more than seen the “uncertain, coy and hard to please” thing, thanks. Though he did not recall that the lady in the poem had ever expressed the most improper and, many would have said, most inappropriate desire to be a man and go off to seek her fortune in the Indies.

    Lewis sighed, and turned on his side.

    He did not think he would sleep very well under the same roof as her, but he must have drifted off, for the next thing he knew a hand was shaking his shoulder and a hoarse voice was hissing: “Sahib! Sahib! You wake now!”

    Lewis opened his eyes and jumped, at the sight of a fierce, bearded face two inches from his own.

    Richpal straightened, beaming and bowing. “‘You come now, sahib, please! Breakfasts is in kitchen!”

    “Uh—thank you,” he muttered groggily. Groggily he consulted the pocket watch he had lain on the ricketty little table by the bed. What? Oh, well...

    In the kitchen he blinked slightly at the sight of Lady Benedict in another crumpled print gown—they seemed to be her holiday wear: this one was a different colour from yesterday’s or the one she had worn at the castle, but if anything, even more crumpled and faded—putting plates of food on the big scrubbed table.

    “Good morning, Lady Benedict,” he said feebly. That gown was not only faded and crumpled, it was manifestly two inches too short for her and, if he was any judge, about the same number of inches too tight for her around the bust. And he would have taken his dying oath that she wasn’t wearing a corset under it.

    “Good morning, Colonel Vane,” returned Nan.

    The robed figure at the stove turn and bowed profoundly. “Good morning, Colonel Sahib,” said Rani. “Here is good dosahs. Also much egg vindaloo, vairy nice!”

    “Eet ees a special receet, wheech ees much favoured een the area een which we lived,” said Nan. “Rani makes eet vairy nicely. But there ees vinegar een eet weeth sugar, you may not care for eet.”

    “I am sure I shall: it smells delicious. Thank you, Rani.”

    Bowing again, the ayah replied: “Also is much rotees and good dal!”

    “Er—the rotees are made of pea flour, Colonel Vane,” said Nan a trifle limply. “and the dal ees a lentil dish: eet ees a receet much favoured weeth these dosahs, but—uh—”

    The Colonel drew up a chair, rubbing his hands. “It all looks very tasty indeed!”

    “There ees coffee,” said Nan limply.

    “Thank you, Lady Benedict. But will you not join me?”

    Nan glanced dubiously at the ayah. Rani burst into excited speech.

    Limply Nan sat down. “Ce que vous auriez dit, je ne sais pas, Colonel,” she said feebly. “Mais elle vient de me permettre de manger avec vous.”

    “Alors, cela ne se fait pas, aux Indes?”

    Nan shook her head silently. She handed him a dish of sliced cucumber.

    “Is this—uh—”

    I know that you are not used—” She broke off. “Just copy me,”

    He nodded, smiling.

    Dom came in yawning just as he was regretfully refusing a last dosah. They were large pancakes, made from wholewheat flour, and flavoured with onion and a little spice. They certainly went excellently well with the curry of hard-boiled eggs. He had not liked the rotees so much, being quite unused to the taste of pea flour.

    “Oh,” said Dom, his face falling. “Aataa dosah?”

    “He likes them,” replied Nan grimly.

    “There is also much rotees, Dom baba!”

    ‘She’s speakin’ English?” he croaked.

    Nan got up. “She likes heem, eet appears. Sit down. –I weell ask Richpal to bring your horse, Colonel Vane.”

    She went out before Lewis could so much as utter.

    When the Colonel was on his way, Mina, Amrita and Johnny having fortunately descended for breakfast in time to wave him off, Dom sat down to a fresh relay of hot rotees and said to his sister: “Deed you know hees uncle died?”

    Nan was helping Johnny with his dosah. She dropped it on the floor.

    “You have not even asked heem, have you?” he said grimly.

    “I—I forgot...” she faltered. “Don’t look at me like that, Dom! I was so taken aback to see heem at the castle: he came up from behind and gave me such a start. And then I— Well. we were all talking about Ruth and Major Norrington,” she ended limply.

    Dom ate rotee and dal angrily. After a moment he said: “He was mighty pleased to learn Henri-Louis had turned up, I can tell you.”

    “Eet was not my FAULT!” she shouted.

    “No, somehow or another eet ees never your fault, ees eet, Nan?” he said nastily. “Well, mayhap eet ees for the best, for eef you cannot theenk of hees concerns even so long as to ask after hees old uncle, he weell pretty soon realize what you ees like, and see that eet would never work.”

    “What do you MEAN?” shouted Nan, bright red, her eyes filled with tears.

    Dom lifted a rotee and looked at it thoughtfully. “I mean, what you expect from a man who admires you ees that he weell lay heemself out to entertain you, à la Captain Q.-V. and poor damned Henri-Louis, while you sit back and lap eet all up, never bothering your head about trying to please heem or even taking an eenterest een what concerns heem.”

    “Rotee, Dom!” cried Johnny beseechingly, as his dosah still lay where his mother had dropped it.

    “Eh? Oh,” he said grimly, lifting Johnny off his chair and onto his knee. “Yes: have some rotee, Johnny baba. You are growing up: you see, already your Mamma concerns herself less and less weeth your needs: soon she weell be expecting you to wait on her hand and foot like a leetle slave boy.”

    Nan got up, her jaw trembling. “That ees absurd,” she said tightly.

    Dom fed Johnny rotee and dal, ignoring her.

    “I dub-don’t— I just forgot,” she said lamely.

    Dom fed Johnny for a moment, and mopped his chin. Then he said: “What else ees he down here for?”

    “Y— Um...”

    The kitchen was silent apart from the sounds of Rani clucking over Mina and Amrita and of Mina, Amrita and Johnny eating.

    “Wuh-well, when deed he die?” she faltered.

    “Just over a month since.”

    “Oh.”

    Dom fed Johnny in silence.

    “Sub-so, ees he living een the uncle’s house?” she faltered.

    “More or less. Says eet ees een a mess.”

    “Oh.”

    “Get out of eet, Nan, before I really lose my temper weeth you,” said Dom through his teeth.

    Tears starting to her eyes, Nan fled.

    Immediately Rani stopped clucking over the girls and fetched Dom and Johnny more rotees. “That’s telling her, Dom Sahib!” she said approvingly in her own language. “That one needs a strong hand: now perhaps she will start to obey the sahib’s orders!”

    “Yes,” agreed Dom with a feeble smile.

    “You should find her a husband who also has a strong hand, Dom Sahib,” said Rani in a respectful voice.

    “Uh—yes,” he gulped.

    “May I humbly suggest that the Colonel Sahib would be most suitable indeed?”

    Dom replied bitterly in the ayah’s tongue: “That’s as may be, but does he deserve to have her wished on him?”

    Rani thought it over. “When he’s beaten some sense into her she will make him an obedient wife.”

    “It’ll take that, too,” said Dom heavily in Portuguese.

    “It—it is a very little boat,” said Ruth in a voice that shook slightly.

    That was precisely what Nan was thinking. However, she replied grimly: “The Colonel seems perfectly competent. I believe he sails a lot.”

    The little sailing dinghy headed out of Sunny Bay on the afternoon tide. The ladies watched silently. The children jumped and waved excitedly and called out good-byes. Rani, Richpal and Krishna also waved excitedly and called out good-byes.

    “Wave, Mamma!” urged Mina, as Nan just stood there like a stock.

    Limply Nan lifted a hand. Dom was waving enthusiastically, but the figure at the tiller did not glance round or make any signal. They watched until the tiny boat was lost to view.

    “I don’t know why, but I had thought it would be a bigger boat,” said Ruth in a small voice.

    “Well, eet ees not.”

    “No,” she said, biting her lip. “Well, come along, children, shall we try for some eggs at Longacre Farm?”

    “Ruth, eet ees a warm afternoon, weell not the walk be too much for you?” said Nan, endeavouring to pull herself together.

    “I am not going to walk, dear Nan,” replied Ruth with a smile, “for Jimmy has cleaned up the little pony-cart we found in the stables.”

    “And Laddie’s going to pull it!” cried Mina excitedly.

    “But Mina, has he ever been harnessed before?”

    Mina looked vague, but offered: “When he was Susan’s, she had a pony-cart.”

    “Yes, but was eet Laddie who pulled eet?”

    “Jimmy has tried him in it,” murmured Ruth.

    “And?”

    “He accepted the signals to start and stop,” she said with a smile.

    “Yes, he started and stopped, Nan!” cried Amrita, jumping. “And he went along, too!”

    “There!” said Ruth with a laugh.

    “On your head be it,” decided Nan with a sigh. “But I must eenseest Richpal accompanies you.”

    “Of course. And Jimmy, too.”

    It turned out that most of the household had determined to go. Nan put her foot down in the case of Rosebud. But Johnny did not weigh all that much: presumably if Laddie could pull Ruth, Mina, Amrita, Jimmy, and Rani, he could pull them plus Johnny. Then it turned out that Krishna had been considering himself one of the expedition. Eventually he was got up behind Richpal on his horse. Somewhat limply Nan waved them off.

    “So, that leaves us, Rosy-Posy!” she said with a forced smile to her little daughter.

    Rosebud yawned widely.

    “You are een the right of eet,” agreed Nan, yawning herself.

    She woke with a start, later in the afternoon, to the sound of wheels on the apology for a sweep. Oh—it must only be Ruth and the children—

    Nan retreated from her bedroom window with a gasp. It was not the pony-cart, but a closed carriage with two horses poled up. She lurked behind the curtains, chewing on her lip, her heart thudding.

    The door was opened, the steps were let down, and out got— Nan’s jaw dropped. It could not be! It was, though: the actor-manager, Mr Perseus Brentwood, very much in person. The waistcoat much to the fore: today’s was a floral design on purple satin. The neckcloth was very high and elaborate, almost obscuring the lower layer of chins, and the hat, which he doffed with a flourish as he turned to assist another passenger to alight, was amazingly curly-brimmed.

    By now Nan was silently praying that he was not accompanied by Miss Lucy Fisher. Not that she herself would have any objection to meeting the actress again under these circumstances: but the thought of Colonel Vane encountering Lucy at her house on his return from Dieppe—! She did not pause to wonder why this picture caused her so much horror, or whether, in fact, Colonel Vane would be shocked by her knowing Miss Fisher.

    But the next person to descend from the coach was not the actress, but a crumpled figure in a rusty-looking black gown and a battered straw bonnet. Who—? The girl looked about her with interest and Nan saw that she was very young, with a plain, wide, simple-looking face.

    Mr Brentwood was again handing a female figure from the coach. Again Nan held her breath...

    “No!” she croaked incredulously.

    She rushed downstairs like a whirlwind.

    “Cherry!” she cried, bursting out of the front door. “What on earth—?”

    It was indeed, Cherry. In black, which did not suit her, but not looking particularly wan. “I—I hope you do not mind, Nan: you did write me that I might visit,” she said, going very pink.

    Nan enveloped her in a hug. “Of course I do not mind, you seelly! You are always welcome! But how deed you get here? And how on earth deed you meet Mr Brentwood? –Oh: I do beg your pardon, Mr Brentwood, how vairy nice to see you again!” she gasped.

    Bowing profoundly, Mr Brentwood assured her the pleasure was all his. And that she need have no qualms about Miss Chalfont’s safety on the journey, no qualms at all, for she had been with him, Grandpa Brentwood and Emmanuel Everett for the last two stages. “And of course, Pug Chalfont, an impeccable chaperon!” he added with a fruity chuckle, assisting the pug to alight.

    “And before that we were on the stage. It was not improper, I think, for Mary was with me,” said Cherry, sounding shy but, to Nan’s astonishment, quite firm. “And Mary and Smith know all about the stage, and we put our names upon the waybill, and it was easy, was it not, Mary?”

    “That it were, Miss Cherry!” said the girl, beaming and bobbing.

    “And we met,” said Cherry firmly, “only the most respectable of persons both on the stage and at the staging inns. And then we happened upon Mr Brentwood, and as he was coming in this direction he very kindly offered us a ride.”

    “I see,” said Nan somewhat limply, as a tall, slender man descended from the carriage and turned to assist an ancient huddled in a shawl.

    The tall man was in a suit of grey clothes: pale grey pantaloons, silver-grey watered silk waistcoat, and grey coat. Even his hat was grey, and under it his profuse curls were a shiny silver.

    Mr Brentwood, his voice fruitier than ever, introduced this personage impressively as: “Emmanuel Everett, well known upon the stages of the great metropolis in the great classic rôles, my Lady.”

    “Mr Everett has read every line Shakespeare ever wrote, and I think he must know most of them by heart: we have had such a fascinating journey, you cannot imagine, dear Nan!” contributed Cherry.

    Emmanuel Everett did not smile: he bowed very low to Lady Benedict and said lugubriously, in a deep voice that had an odd resonance to it, rather as if he were speaking underwater: “Charmed, Lady Benedict.”

    Nan was only capable of: “How do you do, Mr Everett?”

    “And this is Grandpa Brentwood!” said Cherry eagerly. “Only guess, Nan! He has played Jacques, and Autolycus, and all the great comic rôles in his time!”

    The ancient had a high, squeaky voice with a husky break in it: he bobbed his head, which was adorned with an old-fashioned tricorne, and squeaked: “Delighted, I’m sure, me Lady!”

    Mr Everett, still looking lugubrious, removed the hat for him, and the old man bobbed his head again. Or to be strictly accurate, his head and the neat tie-wig which adorned it. Brown: it presented the oddest appearance, for the old man must be in his eighties, if not even more.

    “Obleeged, I’m sure,” he said to the tall actor. “—Looker, ain’t she?”

    “That’ll do, Grandpa,” said Mr Brentwood tolerantly. “He has lost the use of his right arm, as you may observe, my Lady, and he drags that leg a bit, but you’re still pretty spry—ain’t you, Grandpa?” he ended very loudly and clearly.

    “Aye, and I ain’t DEAF!” squeaked the old man crossly.

    “He finds the higher register difficult,” Mr Brentwood explained to Nan, unmoved.

    He could not, then, have much difficulty, in understanding the fruity Mr Brentwood or the resonantly lugubrious Mr Everett. Nan nodded weakly and invited them all .to step in.

    There was, of course, no-one at home to feed the visitors but Nan herself. Though Polly Weddle hurried down from the nursery to lend her aid. Mr Brentwood, however, excused the want of formality most graciously, saying he quite understood that her La’ship was en vacances et en déshabillé. Nan was actually in a cotton gown, and she tried rather hard not to think that that last was in all probability, judging by the admiring glance which accompanied it, a reference to the fact that she was not wearing a corset under the gown. Even Mr Everett’s lugubrious eye seemed for a moment to rest on her appreciatively, horrors!

    Fortunately Rani had left three whole trayfuls of fresh barfees and there was a supply of steamed narial cakes, and several bowls of halwa. There was also a plate of left-over samosahs which could be quickly heated in a pan.

    Nan and Polly Weddle looked dubiously at the resultant spread.

    “That fat feller, he looks as if ’e could eat up this lot single-handed, me Lady!”

    “Mm.” Hurriedly Nan, remembering the actors’ enormous appetites at Mr Fishe’s house, sliced some ham and put out the bread rolls that had been destined for their supper. “We shall have to have kitcheree for supper, but never mind,” she said to Polly.

    Giggling, Polly agreed, and volunteered to bring the vittles through. Nan let her; so what if she was no parlourmaid, at least she was willing.

    The food vanished like dew in the morning, old Grandpa Brentwood in particular proving most partial to Rani’s deliciously sweet carrot halwa. There was only tea to drink, but Mr Brentwood graciously accepted Nan’s apology on this point. And drank enormous amounts of it.

    The actors had encountered Miss Chalfont, it appeared, at a staging inn where they had all paused to take refreshment and had got talking. Nan was in not much doubt as to who had initiated the conversation: Mr Brentwood was clearly incapable of not getting talking to anyone encountered upon the road.

    “And it was such a coincidence, for Mr Brentwood and Mr Everett were headed for Stamforth!” said Cherry happily.

    Graciously Mr Brentwood inclined his head. “Emmanuel Everett and myself have been honoured with an invitation to appear at a private performance at a great house just outside Stamforth town, my Lady. Perhaps you may know it? Lancewood Hall, the home of a Sir Jeremy Foote.”

    “With an E,” said Mr Everett lugubriously, eating ham.

    “Er—no, I do not theenk I know any Foote,” said Nan, rapidly deciding against venturing on a plural; “Footes” sounded most peculiar indeed!

    “We apprehend,” said Mr Brentwood portentously, “that Royalty is to be present.”

    “Really?” replied Nan weakly. “I—I suppose Stamforth ees not so vairy far from Brighton, after all, and that ees said to be the King’s favourite resort, no?”

    “Most certainly, Lady Benedict: the merest village, you know, until His Royal Highness’s—I should say, His Majesty’s—fancy fixed upon it for its salubrious airs and charming situation.”

    “Handy to London, too,” said Mr Everett through the ham.

    “Yes,” Nan agreed limply.

    “Though it is, alas, not English Royalty who will be honouring our humble performance,” admitted Mr Brentwood regretfully, taking the last samosah from under Grandpa Brentwood’s nose.

    “No?” said Nan feebly.

    “Foreign, we understand,” explained Mr Everett.

    Mr Brentwood leant forward and took the teapot out of Nan’s unresisting hand. “Pray allow me, Lady Benedict! A most charming pot, indeed, but too heavy for a lady’s delicate digits! –A member, so we have been privily informed, of the tragic House of Bourbon,” he said impressively.

    Nan had seen this coming for some time. “I see,” she managed, clearing her throat. “How—er—how exciting.”—She was aware at this point that Cherry was avoiding her eye.—“Though perhaps eef they had treated their people weeth more consideration theirs would not now be a tragic house,” she added, rallying slightly.

    Old Mr Brentwood suddenly let out a high-pitched cackle.

    “Ah!” said Mr Perseus Brentwood gaily, shaking a ponderous finger at her; “Naughty, naughty!”

    “Such egalitarian sentiments do you credit, my Lady,” said Mr Everett glumly.

    “Thank you, Mr Everett,” replied Nan feebly.

    “Emmanuel Everett,” said Mr Brentwood, not with approval, “cherishes republican ideals. Though I can assure you, my dear Lady Benedict, that to see his Hal Four, or his Richard Crookback, you would never suspect it. The fellow is a player, you understand—indeed, a player’s player—to his fingertips.” He shook his heavy head slowly, and took the remaining pink barfee.

    “Mr Everett greatly admires Cincinnatus,” contributed Cherry hoarsely.

    “Really?” said Nan weakly. “Well, yes, hees conduct was entirely admirable, was eet not?”

    “Entirely,” said Mr Everett lugubriously, taking a white barfee.

    “So—um—what are you to perform, Mr Brentwood?” asked Nan valiantly.

    Mr Brentwood explained in great detail. Nan had not thought he would not.

    “Well!” she said to Cherry with a laugh as, the visitors having been seen into their carriage, the two ladies and the panting Pug Chalfont repaired to the sitting-room.

    “I do hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid they ate a lot,” said Cherry apologetically.

    “I don’t mind een the least, but I hope you do not mind having to eat Rani’s kitcheree for supper, for they have finished the ham and the rolls!” said Nan with a laugh.

    “I am not sure what kitcheree is, but anything would be better than salt fish that Cook has wept into,” replied Cherry composedly.

    “Your mother’s cook?” said Nan cautiously.

    “Yes. She hated and feared her when she was alive. But then, so did Aunt Lydia, and she has done nothing but cry her eyes out since she died, too,” said Cherry calmly.

    Nan looked at. her narrowly. “And you?”

    “At first I felt I ought to cry, but I could not. It was a shock, of course, and I did feel quite stunned, but I cannot mourn her,” said Cherry simply.

    “No. That ees quite understandable.”

    Cherry leant back in her chair with a sigh. “I knew you would understand. Even Uncle Ketteridge seems to expect me to go about with a long face, and he knows how unhappy I was at home. But I simply cannot force myself to be that hypocritical. It seems...” She frowned over it. “Indecent, somehow.”

    “Yes,” said Nan, nodding firmly. “I quite agree.”

    “Yes,” she said with another sigh.

    After a moment Nan said cautiously: “Cherry, what of Sir Noël?”

    Cherry scowled. “We have had a disagreement. I wrote you how horrid he was about Aunt Lydia, did I not?”

    “Yes, but that was only for your sake, surely!”

    “Perhaps. Though he said it would be madness to inflict another one on the household just when it appeared possible he would be rid of Miss Hurtle at last.”

    Nan swallowed. “Oh.”

    “I tried to explain to him,” said Cherry, frowning, “that Aunt Lydia is my responsibility now, but he wouldn’t listen! In fact it was more than that. It was if I had not spoken at all!”

    “Oh. dear. Yes, he ees rather that type of man,” said Nan, biting her lip.

    Cherry stared at her.

    “Eet—eet ees not uncommon een gentlemen, Cherry.”

    Cherry took a deep breath. “I begin to see. I suppose the standard female counter to it is some sort of—of underhand manoeuvre or sleight of hand, which will enable one to get one’s own way whilst appearing to give in to him! Well, I won’t do it!”

    Nan swallowed. “You are vairy nearly unique amongst women, then.”

    “Can you not see it is to demean both of us?” she cried with angry tears in her eyes.

    “Well, yes, I can, Cherry, but eet ees the way the most of the world behaves,” said Nan unhappily.

    “No doubt. But I do not think I can live my life on that sort of basis,” said Cherry tightly, getting up. “If you will excuse me, I think perhaps I shall have a little rest after the journey.”

    “Yes, of course. Um... take Dom’s room, Cherry, dear, and we’ll sort out who ees to sleep where when he returns.”

    “Is he not here, then?” said Cherry in surprise.

    “Um—no. There ees rather a lot to tell you, which I deed not care to write een a letter,” admitted Nan.

    “Is Ruth all right?” she asked in alarm.

    “Yes, perfectly all right.”

    “Oh, good. –I have not told him anything about it,” she announced, scowling horribly.

    Nan did not need to ask: clearly “he” was Sir Noël Amory. Oh, dear, oh dear! Would there be any point in trying to tell Cherry that the quarrel with Sir Noël had in all probability arisen because she was more disturbed over her mother’s death than she was admitting to herself, and that she was simply not herself, and must allow herself a little breathing space before she made any decisions about her future?

    Well, not at the moment, no, she decided ruefully, looking at her latest guest’s scowling face. But later—yes, she must. In spite of what Cherry had just said, Nan did not think, really, that the aspects of Sir Noël’s character which she herself considered a bar to matrimony would appear to Cherry as any such thing. Not when she was herself again.