“I didn’t for a moment suppose there was,” said Troy.

“You are Agatha Troy, aren’t you?” he continued anxiously. “I couldn’t be mistaken. I mean, it’s too shatteringly coincidental, isn’t it? Here I am, reading my little journal, and what should I see but a perfectly blissful photograph of you. So exciting and so miraculously you. And if I’d had the weeniest doubt left, that alarming affair you’re reading would have settled it.”

Troy looked from her book to the young man. “Macbeth?” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, but it was too conclusive,” he said. “But, of course, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Cedric Ancred.”

“Oh,” said Troy after a pause. “Oh, yes. I see.”

“And then to clinch it, there was your name on that envelope. I’m afraid I peered shamelessly. But it’s too exciting that you’re actually going to make a picture of the Old Person in all his tatts and bobs. You can’t imagine what that costume is like! And the toque! Some terrifically powerful man beat it out of solid steel for him. He’s my Grandpa, you know. My mother is Millamant Ancred. My father, only promise you won’t tell anyone, was Henry Irving Ancred. Imagine!”

Troy could think of nothing to say in reply to this recital and took another bite out of her sandwich.

“So, you see, I had to make myself known,” he continued with an air that Troy thought of as ‘winsome’. “I’m so burnt up always about your work, and the prospect of meeting you was absolutely tonic.”

“But how did you know,” Troy asked, “that I was going to paint Sir Henry?”

“I rang up Uncle Thomas last night and he told me. I’d been commanded to the presence, and had decided that I couldn’t face it, but immediately changed my plans. You see,” said Cedric with a boyish frankness which Troy found intolerable, “you see, I actually try to paint. I’m with Pont et Cie. and I do the designs. Of course everything’s too austerity and grim nowadays, but we keep toddling.”

His suit was silver grey. His shirt was pale green, his pullover was dark green, and his tie was orange. He had rather small eyes, and in the middle of his soft round chin there was a dimple.

“If I may talk about your work,” he was saying, “there’s a quality in it that appeals to me enormously. It — how can I describe it? — its design is always consistent with its subject matter. I mean, the actual pattern is not something arbitrarily imposed on the subject but an inevitable consequence of it. Such integrity, always. Or am I talking nonsense?”

He was not talking complete nonsense and Troy grudgingly admitted it. There were few people with whom she cared to discuss her work. Cedric Ancred watched her for a few seconds. She had the unpleasant feeling that he sensed her distaste for him.

His next move was unexpected. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damply blond and wavy. “God!” he said. “People! The things they say! If only one could break through, as you have. God! Why is life so perpetually bloody?”

“Oh, dear! Troy thought and shut her luncheon basket. Cedric was gazing at her fixedly. Evidently she was expected to reply.

“I’m not much good,” she said, “at generalities about life.”

“No!” he muttered and nodded his head profoundly. “Of course not. I so agree. You are perfectly right, of course.”

Troy looked furtively at her watch. A full half-hour, she thought, before we get to Ancreton Halt and then, he’s coming too.

“I’m boring you,” Cedric said loudly. “No, don’t deny it. God! I’m boring you. T’uh!”

“I just don’t know how to carry on this sort of conversation, that’s all.”

Cedric began to nod again.

“You were reading,” he said. “I stopped you. One should never do that. It’s an offence against the Holy Ghost.”

“I never heard such nonsense,” said Troy with spirit.

Cedric laughed gloomily. “Go on!” he said. “Please go on. Return to your ‘Blasted Heath’. It’s an atrociously bad play, in my opinion, but go on reading it.”

But it was not easy to read, knowing that a few inches away he was glaring at her over his folded arms. She turned a page. In a minute or two he began to sigh. “He sighs,” thought Troy, “like the Mock Turtle, and I think he must be mad.” Presently he laughed shortly, and, in spite of herself, Troy looked up. He was still glaring at her. He had a jade cigarette case open in his hand.

“You smoke?” he asked.

She felt certain that if she refused he would make some further peculiar scene, so she took one of his cigarettes. He lit it in silence and flung himself back in his corner.

After all, Troy thought, I’ve got to get on with him, somehow, and she said: “Don’t you find it extraordinarily tricky hitting on exactly the right note in fashion drawings? When one thinks of what they used to be like! There’s no doubt that commercial art—”

“Prostitution!” Cedric interrupted. “Just that. If you don’t mind the initial sin it’s quite amusing.”

“Do you work at all for the theatre?”

“So sweet of you to take an interest,” Cedric answered rather acidly. “Oh, yes. My Uncle Thomas occasionally uses me. Actually I’m madly keen on it. One would have thought that with the Old Person behind one there would have been an opening. Unfortunately he is not behind me, which is so sickening. I’ve been cut out by the Infant Monstrosity.” He brightened a little. “It’s some comfort to know I’m the eldest grandson, of course. In my more optimistic moments I tell myself he can’t leave me completely out of his will. My worst nightmare is the one when I dream I’ve inherited Ancreton. I always wake screaming. Of course, with Sonia on the tapis, almost anything may happen. You’ve heard about Sonia?”

Troy hesitated and he went on: “She’s the Old Person’s little bit of nonsense. Immensely decorative. I can’t make up my mind whether she’s incredibly stupid or not, but I fear not. The others are all for fighting her, tooth and claw, but I rather think of ingratiating myself in case he does marry her. What do you think?”

Troy was wondering if it was a characteristic of all male Ancreds to take utter strangers into their confidence. But they couldn’t all be as bad as Cedric. After all, Nigel Bathgate had said Cedric was frightful, and even Thomas — she thought suddenly how nice Thomas seemed in retrospect when one compared him with his nephew.

“But do tell me,” Cedric was saying, “how do you mean to paint him? All beetling and black? But whatever you decide it will be marvellous. You will let me creep in and see, or are you dreadfully fierce about that?”

“Rather fierce, I’m afraid,” said Troy.

“I suspected so.” Cedric looked out of the window and immediately clasped his forehead. “It’s coming,” he said. “Every time I brace myself for the encounter and every time, if there was a train to take me, I would rush screaming back to London. In a moment we shall see it. I can’t bear it. God! That one should have to face such horrors.”

“What in the world’s the matter?”

“Look!” cried Cedric, covering his eyes. “Look! Katzenjammer Castle!”

Troy looked through the window. Some two miles away, on the crest of a hill, fully displayed, stood Ancreton.