She knew that Cecil was a guest and too grown-up to play a trick on, though George was surely in her power. But having the power, she couldn’t think what to do with it. Now Cecil had his hand on George’s shoulder, as if consoling him, though he was laughing too, more quietly than before; the curves of their two hats nudged and overlapped. She thought there was something nice in Cecil’s laugh, after all, a little whinny of good fun, even if, as so often, she was not included in the joke. Then Cecil raised his head and saw her and said, ‘Oh, hello!’ as if they’d already met several times and enjoyed it.

George was confused for a second, peered at her as he quickly buttoned his jacket, and said, ‘Cecil missed his train,’ rather sharply.

‘Well, clearly,’ said Daphne, who chose a certain dryness of tone against the constant queasy likelihood of being teased.

‘And then of course I had to see Middlesex,’ said Cecil, coming forward and shaking her hand. ‘We seem to have tramped over much of the county.’

‘He brought you the country way,’ said Daphne. ‘There’s the country way, and the suburban way, which doesn’t create such a fine impression. You just go straight up Stanmore Hill.’

George wheezed with embarrassment, and also a kind of relief. ‘There, Cess, you’ve met my sister.’

Cecil’s hand, hot and hard, was still gripping hers, in a frank, convivial way. It was a large hand, and somehow unfeeling; a hand more used to gripping oars and ropes than the slender fingers of sixteen-year-old girls. She took in his smell, of sweat and grass, the sourness of his breath. When she started to pull her fingers out, he squeezed again, for a second or two, before releasing her. She didn’t like the sensation, but in the minute that followed she found that her hand held the memory of his hand, and half-wanted to reach out through the shadows and touch it again.