“Do you?” Troy said helplessly.

Down the cobbled lane walked a pleasant-looking man in an ancient knickerbocker suit of Donegal tweed and a cloth cap. He carried, beside a rucksack, a square box on a shoulder-strap and a canvas-covered object that might, Troy thought, almost be a grossly misshapen tennis racket. He took off his cap when he saw the ladies and kept it off. He was of a sandy complexion with a not unattractive cast in one of his blue eyes, a freckled countenance and a tentative smile.

“Good morning,” he said. “We must be fellow-travellers.” Troy agreed. Miss Rickerby-Carrick, blurred about the eyes and nose, nodded, smiled and sniffed. She was an industrious nodder.

“No signs of the Zodiac as yet,” said the newcomer. “Dear me,” he added, “that’s a pit-fall of a joke isn’t it? We shall all be making it as punctually as the tides, I daresay.” Miss Rickerby-Carrick after a moment’s thought, was consumed with laughter. He looked briefly at her and attentively at Troy. “My name’s Caley Bard,” he said.

“I’m Troy Alleyn and this is Miss Rickerby-Carrick.”

“You said you were Agatha,” Miss Rickerby-Carrick pointed out. “You said Agatharallen,” and Troy felt herself blushing.

“So I am,” she muttered, “the other’s just a sort of a joke — my husband—” her voice died away. She was now extremely conscious of Mr Bard’s scrutiny and particularly aware of its dwelling speculatively on the veteran paintbox at her feet. All he said, however, was, “Dear me,” in a donnish tone. When she looked her apprehension he tipped her a wink. This was disconcerting.

She was relieved by the arrival on an apocalyptic motor-bicycle of a young man and his girl. The noonday sun pricked at their metal studs and turned the surface of their leather suits and calf-high boots into toffee. From under crash helmets, hair, veiled in oil and dust, fell unevenly to their shoulders. Their machine belched past the stationary chauffeur-driven car and came to a halt. They put their booted feet to the ground and lounged, chewing, against their bicycle. “There is nothing,” Troy thought, “as insolent as a gum-chewing face,” and at the same time she itched to make a sharp, black drawing of the riders.