“Lunch, Father,” screamed Barbara unnecessarily. She walked across the sweep and entered the enclosure. On a brush fence that screened the first path hung a weather-worn placard: “The Elfin Pool. Engaged.” The Claires had given each of the pools some amazingly insipid title, and Barbara had neatly executed the placards in poker-work.

“Are you there, Mummy?” asked Barbara.

“Come in, my dear.”

She walked round the screen and found her mother at her feet, submerged up to the shoulders in bright blue steaming water that quite hid her plump body. Over her fuzz of hair Mrs. Claire wore a rubber bag with a frilled edge and she had spectacles on her nose. With her right hand she held above the water a shilling edition of Cranford.

“So charming,” she said. “They are all such dears. I never tire of them.”

“Lunch is nearly in.”

“I must pop out. The Elf is really wonderful, Ba. My tiresome arm is quite cleared up.”

“I’m so glad, Mummy,” said Barbara in a loud voice. “I want to ask you something.”

“What is it?” said Mrs. Claire, turning a page with her thumb.

“Do you like Mr. Questing?”

Mrs. Claire looked up over the top of her book. Barbara was standing at a curious angle, balanced on her right leg. Her left foot was hooked round her right ankle.

“Dear,” said Mrs. Claire, “don’t stand like that. It pushes all the wrong things out and tucks the right ones in.”

“But do you?” Barbara persisted, changing her posture with a jerk.

“Well, he’s not out of the top drawer of course, poor thing.”

“I don’t mind about that. And anyway what is the top drawer? It’s a maddening sort of way to classify people. Such cheek! I’m sorry, Mummy, I didn’t mean to be rude. But honestly, for us to talk about class!” Barbara gave a loud hoot of laughter. “Look at us!” she said.