“Bimbo’s been into it, too. He’s prepared to put up some of the cash and go in as a partner.”

“Indeed. I am surprised to learn he is in a position to do so.”

She actually changed colour at this. There was a short silence, and then she said: “Harold, I ask you very seriously to let Andrew have his inheritance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You may remember,” she said, with no change of manner, “that when I do fight, it’s no holds barred.”

“In common with most—”

“Don’t say ‘with most of my delightful sex,’ Harold.”

“One can always omit the adjective,” said Mr. Cartell.

“Ah, well,” Désirée said pleasantly and stood up. “I can see there’s no future in sweet reasonableness. Are you enjoying life in P.P.’s stately cottage?”

Mr. Cartell also rose. “It’s a satisfactory arrangement,” he said stiffly, “for me. I trust, for him.”

“He won’t enjoy the Moppett-Leonard crise, will he? Poor P.P., such a darling as he is and such a Godalmighty snob. Does he know?”

“Know what?” Mr. Cartell asked unguardedly.

“About your niece and her burglar boyfriend?”

Mr. Cartell turned scarlet and closed his eyes. “She is NOT,” he said in the trembling voice of extreme exasperation, “my niece.”

“How do you know? I’ve always thought Connie might have popped her away to simmer, and then adopted her back, as you might say.”

“That is a preposterous and possibly an actionable statement, Désirée. The girl — Mary Ralston — came from an extremely reputable adoption centre.”

“Connie might have put her there.”

“If you will forgive me, I’ll have a word with Noakes. I regret very much that I have troubled you.”

“P.P. is dining with us. He and I are going to have a cozy old chum’s gossip before my treasure hunt party arrives.”

Mr. Cartell said: “I am not susceptible to moral blackmail, Désirée. I shall not reconsider my decision about Andrew.”

“Look,” Désirée said. “I fancy you know me well enough to realize that I’m not a sentimental woman.”

“That,” said Mr. Cartell, “I fully concede. A woman who gives a large party on the day her brother’s death is announced—”

“My dear Hal, you know you looked upon Ormsbury as a social scourge and so did I. By and large, I’m not madly fond of other people. But I am fond of Andrew. He’s my son and I like him very much indeed. You watch out for yourself, Harold. I’m on the warpath.”

A motor horn sounded distantly. They both turned to the windows.

“And here,” Désirée said, “are your friends. I expect you want to go to meet them. Good-bye.”

When Mr. Cartell had left her, she moved into the French window and, unlike Moppett, very openly watched the scene outside.

The Scorpion came up the drive at a great pace, but checked abruptly. Then it moved on at a more decorous speed and pulled up. Leonard and Moppett got out simultaneously. Sergeant Noakes advanced and so did they, all smiles and readiness, but with the faintest suggestion of self-consciousness, Désirée considered, in their joints. It’s people’s elbows, she reflected, that give them away.

They approached the group of three. Moppett, with girlish insouciance, linked her arm through Mr. Cartell’s, causing him to become rigid with distaste.

First blood to Moppett, thought Désirée with relish.

Leonard listened to Sergeant Noakes with an expression that progressed from bonhomie through concern towards righteous astonishment. He bowed ironically and indicated the Scorpion. Catching sight of Désirée, he shook his head slowly from side to side as if inviting her to share his bewilderment. He then removed two large packages from the Scorpion.

Désirée opened the French window and strolled down the steps towards them. Mr. Cartell furiously disengaged himself from Moppett.

“I think,” he said, “that we should get back, Noakes. If Copper drives the other car, you, I suppose—”

Sergeant Noakes glanced at Moppett and muttered something.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Leonard said quickly and with excessive politeness. “Please.”

They touched their hats to Désirée and mounted their respective cars. They drove away, inexplicably at a disadvantage.

“Well,” Désirée asked cheerfully, “did you find my tiresome food?”

Moppett and Leonard, all smiles, began to chatter and give way to each other.

Finally Moppett said: “Dear Lady Bantling — yes. We’ve got it all, but, as you see, we ran into a muddle of sorts. Mr. Copper’s made a nonsense about the Scorpion, and we’ve missed buying it.”

“Inefficient,” Leonard said. “It appears somebody else had first refusal.”

“How very disappointing.”

“Isn’t it!” Moppett agreed. “Too sickening.” She gave a little scream and put her hand to her mouth. “Leonard!” she cried. “Fools that we are!”

“What, darling?”

“We ought to have gone back with them. Look at us! Now what do we do?”

Leonard allowed the slightest possible gap to occur before he said: “I’m afraid Mr. George Copper will have to make a return trip in my car. Too bad!”

“What will you think of us?” Moppett asked Désirée.

“Oh,” she said lightly, “the worst,” and they laughed with possibly a shade less conviction.

“At least,” Moppett said, “we can bring the food in, can’t we? And if we might ring up for some sort of transport…”

Bimbo came out of the house and fetched up short when he saw them. Désirée grinned at him.

“Why not stay?” she said very distinctly to Moppett. “After fetching all our food, the least we can do is to ask you to eat it. Do stay.”

Andrew put Nicola’s overcoat on the seat and sat opposite to her.

“The best thing about this train,” he said, “is that it’s nearly always empty. So you’re returning to the fold tomorrow, are you?”

Nicola said Mr. Period had asked her to do so, and that was why she had left her typewriter behind.

“But you’re not returning to Little Codling tomorrow,” Andrew said, with the air of taking a plunge, “you’re returning tonight. At least I hope so. Don’t say another word. I’ve got an invitation for you.”

He produced it and gave it to her with an anxious smile.

It was from his mother and it said:

Nicola stared at him in amazement.

“My mum,” he said, “has taken a fancy to you. So, as is no doubt abundantly obvious, have I. Now don’t go into a brouhaha and say you can’t. Just say: ‘Thank you, Andrew. How sweet of your mum, I’d love to.’ ”

“But how can I?”

“How?” Andrew said grandly. “Anyhow. Why not?”

“I tell you what,” Nicola said. “You’ve nagged at your mum to ask me.”

“I swear I haven’t. She nagged at me and I said I would if you would.”

“There you are, you see.”

“No, I don’t. And anyway, do stop carping and come. It’s definitely not one of my mama’s more rococo parties. I wouldn’t dream of taking you to one of them, of course.”

Nicola, who remembered hearing rumours of some of Lady Bantling’s parties, felt relieved.

“What I thought,” Andrew continued, “I’ll drop you wherever you live and you can nip into your Number One ceremonials and then I’ll pick up my dinner jacket. I have a car of sorts and we’ll dine somewhere and then we’ll drive down to Bayneshelme.”

“What about the cocktail party you’re all dressed up for?”

“Forget it, completely. Do come, Nicola. Will you?”

“Thank you, Andrew. How sweet of your mum to ask me. I’d love to.”

“Thank you, Nicola.”

For the rest of the journey Andrew talked to Nicola about himself. He said he wanted to paint more than anything else in life and that he’d been having lessons and was “meant to be not too bad,” but bad or not he had to go on with it. He said that if he could take the Grantham Gallery over, there was a studio at the back where he could paint and manage the Gallery at the same time. Then he described his unproductive and bad-tempered meeting that morning with his guardian and stepfather, Mr. Cartell.