He loves the life of ideas.’ She saw the paths across and around the courts of the colleges as ideas, with the young men following them, through archways, and up staircases. Beyond were the gardens and river-banks, the hazy dazzle of social freedom, where George and his friends stretched out on the grass, or slipped by in punts. She said cautiously, ‘You know he has been elected to the Conversazione Society.’

‘Indeed…’ said Clara, with a vague shake of the head.

‘We’re not allowed to know about it. But it’s philosophy, I think. Cecil Valance got him into it. They discuss ideas. I think George said they discuss, “Does this hearth-rug exist?” That kind of thing.’

‘The big questions,’ said Clara.

Freda laughed guiltily and said, ‘I understand it’s a great honour to be a member.’

‘And Cecil is older than George,’ said Clara.

‘I believe two or three years older, and already quite an expert on some aspect of the Indian Mutiny. Apparently he hopes to be a Fellow of the college.’

‘He is offering to help George.’

‘Well, I think they’re great friends!’

Clara let a moment pass. ‘Whatever the reason,’ she said, ‘George is blooming.’

Freda smiled firmly, as she took up her friend’s idea. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘He’s coming into bloom, at last!’ The image was both beautiful and vaguely unsettling. Then Daphne was sticking her head through the window and shouting,

‘They’re here!’ – sounding furious with them for not knowing.

‘Ah, good,’ said her mother, standing up again.

‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Clara Kalbeck, with a dry laugh, as if her own patience had been tried by the wait.

Daphne glanced quickly over her shoulder, before saying, ‘He’s extremely charming, you know, but he has a rather carrying voice.’

‘And so have you, my dear,’ said Freda. ‘Now do go and bring him in.’

‘I shall depart,’ said Clara, quietly and gravely.