“Yes,” said Rollison. “I certainly—”

The telephone bell cut across his words. Rollison lifted his hand palm-outwards—an “after you” sign to Jolly, who took the receiver and answered in his quiet, modulated voice:

“This is Mr Rollison’s residence.” There was a momentary pause, then a look first of alarm, then of resignation, flitted across Jolly’s face. “Yes, my lady,” he said. “Mr Rollison is in.”

Rollison, surprised at the extent of his own satisfaction, took the telephone with one hand and with the other signalled to Jolly to stay where he was. Before speaking, he sat on the arm of a brown leather chair and stretched out his long legs.

“Good morning, Aunt,” he said, with mock deference.

“Richard.” This was Lady Hurst at her most autocratic. “I wish to see you.”

“Very well, Aunt,” said Rollison. “When?”

“In half an hour’s time.”

“I’m sorry—” began Rollison, but before he could go on, his protest was brushed aside in a torrent of command from his oldest surviving relative and the one member of his family for whom he had regard, affection and respect. This was a matter of great importance; he must drop everything else and give it priority. It was not often that his aunt requested a favour and on this occasion he must grant it.

“. . . so be here in half an hour’s time, Richard,” she ended, as if it would never occur to Rollison to insist on “no.”

“But Aunt Gloria—”

“Be here, Richard.”

“But Aunt Gloria!” cried Rollison, in convincing mock distress, “I can’t be both with you and at the West London Magistrates Court, can I?”

There was a curious sound at the other end of the telephone as if Lady Hurst had suddenly caught her breath. Jolly gave a wan smile and moved towards the domestic quarters, while Rollison winked at the Trophy Wall and pictured his aunt’s stern, deeply-lined face in his mind’s eye. He waited in the long silence, until Lady Hurst said in a very positive tone: