“Is that the one in Java, or the one who could never keep a job in South America?”

“No, that was Denis. He’s Mummy’s brother-on the other side. This is the one in Java, George Thrale, and he’s got pots of money, and he’s my godfather, and after sending me a christening mug three years running he stopped doing anything about it till a fortnight ago, and then he sent Mummy a cheque for three hundred pounds and said, ‘Get her all the proper clothes and let her come out with my friends the Middletons who are sailing on the fifth of Feb.’ ”

“But, Marcia, that’s tomorrow!”

“I know, darling. And that’s positively all there was in the letter, except ‘Dear Mary’ at the beginning and ‘Cable reply. Love. George’ at the end. Gay, I must speak to you. What are you doing?”

“Well, I was trying to wash my hair. It’s dripping all over the hall table at this minute.”

“Darling, how grim! Jane told me you were with your Aunt Agatha-but why? The last I heard, you were going to Madeira.”

“It wouldn’t run to it,” said Gay mournfully. “Daddy and Mummy had to go because someone’s started a lawsuit about Mummy’s property out there. If it doesn’t come out all right, there’ll be frightfully little money, so when Aunt Agatha offered to have me they said ‘Thank you very much, kind sister’ and dumped me.”

“Darling, how utterly grim!”

Gay sparkled at her end of the line. Even with her black curls wet and dripping and an old school dressing-gown pulled hastily round her, she didn’t look at all like the sort of girl who would sit down and play Cinderella whilst her parents basked in the sun. Aunt Agatha was a bore, and bazaars were a bore, but there were compensations. She said,

“Oh-well-”

Marcia pounced.

“What does that mean?”

Gay made a little impudent face. Her nose wrinkled and her dark eyes danced.

“Very kind-hearted people sometimes take me out,” she said.