Mrs. Foster was a dedicated hypochondriac and nobody would have believed in the lumbago if McBride, the Upper Quintern jobbing gardener, had not confided that he had come across her on the gravelled drive, wearing her best tweeds, hat and gloves and crawling on all fours toward the house. She had been incontinently smitten on her way to the garage.

The Vicar saw himself off at the Leonardo da Vinci airport, said his visit had given him much food for thought and ended on a note of ecumenical wistfulness.

Tea was announced and a mass move to the dining-room accomplished.

“Hullo, Syb,” said Verity Preston. “Can I help?”

“Darling!” cried Mrs. Foster. “Would you? Would you pour? I simply can’t cope. Such arthritis! In the wrists.”

“Sickening for you.”

“Honestly: too much. Not a wink all night and this party over one, and Prue’s off somewhere watching hang-gliding” (Prunella was Mrs. Foster’s daughter) “so she’s no use. And to put the final pot on it, ghastly McBride’s given notice. Imagine!”

“McBride has? Why?”

“He says he feels ill. If you ask me it’s bloodymindedness.”

“Did you have words?” Verity suggested, rapidly filling up cups for ladies to carry off on trays.

“Sort of. Over my picking the japonica. This morning.”

“Is he still here? Now?”

“Don’t ask me. Probably flounced off. Except that he hasn’t been paid. I wouldn’t put it past him to be sulking in the toolshed.”

“I must say I hope he won’t extend his embargo to take me in.”

“Oh, dear me, no!” said Mrs. Foster with a hint of acidity. “You’re his adored Miss Preston. You, my dear, can’t do wrong in McBride’s bleary eyes.”