‘I was reading poetry,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid it grew too dark to see.’

‘Ah!’ said Cecil, with his quick high laugh, that was almost a snigger; but she sensed he was looking at her kindly. In the late dusk they had to peer closely to be sure of each other’s expressions; it made them seem particularly interested in each other. ‘Which poet?’

She had Tennyson’s poems, and also the Granta, with three of Cecil’s own poems in it, ‘Corley’, ‘Dawn at Corley’ and ‘Corley: Dusk’. She said, ‘Oh, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.’

Cecil nodded slowly and seemed amused by searching for the kind and lively thing to say. ‘Do you find he still holds up?’ he said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Daphne firmly, and then wondered if she’d understood the question. She glanced between the lines of trees, but with a sense of other shadowy perspectives, the kind of Cambridge talk that George often treated them to, where things were insisted on that couldn’t possibly be meant. It was a refinement of teasing, where you were never told why your answer was wrong. ‘We all love Tennyson here,’ she said, ‘at “Two Acres”.’

Now Cecil’s eyes seemed very playful, under the broad peak of his cap. ‘Then I can see we shall get on,’ he said. ‘Let’s all read out our favourite poems – if you like to read aloud.’

‘Oh yes!’ said Daphne, excited already, though she’d never heard Hubert read out anything except a letter in The Times that he agreed with. ‘Which is your favourite?’ she said, with a moment’s worry that she wouldn’t have heard of it.

Cecil smiled at them both, savouring his power of choice, and said, ‘Well, you’ll find out when I read it to you.’

‘I hope it’s not “The Lady of Shalott”,’ said Daphne.

‘Oh, I like “The Lady of Shalott”.’

‘I mean, that’s my favourite,’ said Daphne.

George said, ‘Well, come up and meet Mother,’ spreading his arms to shepherd them.

‘And Mrs Kalbeck’s here too,’ said Daphne, ‘by the way.’