And as though thinking of old people had invoked a manifestation before her very eyes,there, deep down in the water, and yet not quite so deep as the rocks and sand and little clouds of underwater dust, the face of an old woman appeared suddenly in the depths to peer sinisterly up at her, the mouth leering uglily, and the eyes — the eyes — relentlessly seeking her own. She started back in fright, and wished she had stayed on her back looking up at the sky. Yet when she searched around her, there was no one to be seen, certainly no old woman with hideous face. There were only the birds and the horse across the river and no, not even the punt and the jetty. Ah, but the house was still there, craning to assure comfort.

What would that house provide for her tonight? she wondered. A birthday dinner, of course. Flora and Elsie, perhaps even Mabel, would cook it; Grace would set table. None of Annie's 'good plain cooking' tonight; her sisters would give the cook a night off. They had promised. But Bridget would still serve; her father would insist on that. And perhaps, tonight, having turned seventeen, she might be allowed a glass of wine? But no, that might be too much to expect. Fruit punch as usual, she supposed, and pulled a little moue. Girls, she opined, should be allowed to drink wine, even sherry, when they first put up their hair. Hers had been up for a year now, but the only wine she had tasted, she giggled to herself, had been drunk surreptitiously down in the dark of the cellar. Somehow, perhaps because it was forbidden, it had seemed all the more delicious.

And for dinner? Chicken, she supposed; the last of the turkeys had been eaten for Christmas. Flora's vegetable soup first, and then almost the same vegetables fresh from the garden to go with the main course. Unless, unless — unless Father remembered how she adored Brussels sprouts and brought some home from the city.