“All hotsy-totsy in the upper regions?” Mrs. Mitchell asked.

“As well as can be expected, Mrs. M.”

A shrill yelp modulating into a long-drawn-out howl sounded outside. “That dog!” Mrs. Mitchell said.

Alfred went to the back door and opened it. An enormous half-bred boxer hurled itself against his legs and rushed past him to the kitchen. “Bitch!” Alfred said factually, but with feeling.

“Lay down! Get out of my kitchen! Shoo!” Mrs. Mitchell cried confusedly.

“Here — Pixie!”

The boxer slavered, ogled and threshed its tail.

“Upstairs! Pixie! Up to your master.”

Alfred seized the bitch’s collar and lugged it into the hall. A whistle sounded above. The animal barked joyously, flung itself up the stairs, skating and floundering as it went. Alfred sent a very raw observation after it and returned to the kitchen.

“It’s too much,” he said. “We never bargained for it. Never.”

“I don’t mind a nice cat.”

“Exactly. And the damage it does!”

“Shocking. Your breakfast’s ready, Mr. Belt. New-laid egg.”

“Very nice,” Alfred said.

He sat down to it, a neat dark man with quite an air about him, Mrs. Mitchell considered. She watched him make an incisive stab at the egg. The empty shell splintered and collapsed. Mrs. Mitchell, in a trembling voice, said: “First of April, Mr. B.,” and threw her apron over her face. He was so completely silent that for a moment she thought he must be annoyed. However, when she peeped round her apron, he shook his eggspoon at her.

“You wait,” he threatened. “You just wait, my lady. That’s all.”

“To think of you falling for an old wheeze like that.”