“If he gets here in three weeks,” Troy was saying, “where do you suppose he is now? He might be in New York. But he’d cable if he was in New York. The last letter was still from New Zealand, of course. And the cable.”

“Why don’t you get on with your work?”

“Work?” said Troy vaguely. “Oh, well. I’ll send off that telegram.” She wandered to the door and came back for the letter. “Six by four,” she said. “Imagine it!”

ii

“Mr. Thomas Ancred?” said Troy, looking at the card in her hand. “My dear Katti, he’s actually here on the spot.”

Katti, who had almost completed her vigorous canvas, laid down her brushes and said: “This is in answer to your telegram. He’s come to badger you. Who is he?”

“A son of Sir Henry Ancred’s, I fancy. Isn’t he a theatrical producer? I seem to remember seeing: ‘Produced by Thomas Ancred’ under casts of characters? Yes, of course he is. That production of Macbeth we were talking about at the Unicorn. He was in the picture somewhere then. Look, there’s Unicorn Theatre scribbled on the card. We’ll have to ask him to dinner, Katti. There’s not a train before nine. That’ll mean opening another tin. What a bore.”

“I don’t see why he need stay. There’s a pub in the village. If he chooses to come on a fool’s errand!”

“I’ll see what he’s like.”

“Aren’t you going to take off that painting smock?”

“I don’t suppose so,” Troy said vaguely, and walked up the path from her studio to her house. It was a cold afternoon. Naked trees rattled in a north wind and leaden clouds hurried across the sky. “Suppose,” Troy pretended, “I was to walk in and find it was Rory.