It was May, that morning there had been rain, and the leaves of trees and hedgerow, bushes and flowers, were green jewels in the bright sun. She could see a wide expanse of garden and meadow, and in the distance, the roof of Selby Farm; the house itself was hidden by a copse of beech. She longed to see Alan come striding along, but no-one came walking; although a car turned into the road.

She watched it coming, bright green yet very different in colour from the leaves.

Monty had said : “Hold on a minute,” and she knew that he was talking to someone else, for she could hear a murmur of voices. The car was coming nearer. An aeroplane shone like a silver speck and left a white trail behind it.

“Hallo, Gillian, you there?”

“Of course I’m here.”

“Well, don’t go haring off looking for Alan,” said Monty, in the authoritative voice which he could adopt at times, always surprising her. “I’m coming down straight away. Be there soon after one. Hungry.”

“You may have to make do with a sandwich.”

“You pop something into the oven,” insisted Monty. “You don’t realise it yet, but you’ll be entertaining the next best thing to royalty.”

The green car was so near now that Gillian could make out the face of the young man at the wheel, and could see that the car was an M.G. saloon. Some fowls fluttered near the trees which hid the farmhouse, suggesting that Old Smith was out of doors; he always managed to scare them.

“Monty, don’t you bring any guests today, the whole place is upside down,”

“Be seeing you,” said Monty. “Be sure you don’t run away, good—oh, hold on a minute.” His voice faded, but he soon spoke clearly again, “Try to think of anywhere Alan might have gone, and telephone round to find out if anyone’s seen him.”

“Monty, you mustn’t “

“Toodle-00,” said Monty Mome, and rang off.

He was infuriating, but that was nothing unusual; Gillian seemed to have spent her life alternatively hating the sight of him, and thinking he was one of the better things of this world.