“The potato!” Cedric murmured. “A pregnant sublimation, I feel sure.”

“You enjoy eating them, anyway,” Fenella said bluntly.

“Here we are, Mrs. Alleyn. Do you honestly feel like walking? If so, we’ll go up the Middle Walk and Cedric can drive.”

They climbed out. Paul opened the elaborate and becrested iron gates, explaining that the lodge was now used as a storehouse for vegetables. Cedric, holding the reins with a great show of distaste, was borne slowly off to the left. The other three began the ascent of the terraces.

The curiously metallic sound of children’s singing quavered threadily in the autumn air.

As they climbed the second flight of steps a woman’s crisp voice could be heard, dominating the rest.

On the second terrace some thirty little girls and boys were digging in time to their own singing. A red-haired young woman, clad in breeches and sweater, shouted the rhythmic orders. Troy was just in time to see a little boy in the back row deliberately heave a spadeful of soil down the neck of a near-by little girl. Singing shrilly, she retaliated by catching him a swinging smack across the rump with the flat of her spade.

“And Down and Kick and Heave. Back,” shouted the young woman, waving cheerfully to Paul and Fenella.

“Come over here!” Fenella screamed. The young woman left her charges and strode towards them. The singing continued, but with less vigour. She was extremely pretty. Fenella introduced her: Miss Caroline Able. She shook hands firmly with Troy, who noticed that the little girl, having downed the little boy, now sat on his face and had begun methodically to plaster his head with soil. In order to do this she had been obliged first to remove a curious white cap. Several of the other children, Troy noticed, wore similar caps.

“You’re keeping them hard at it, aren’t you, Carol?” said Fenella.

“We stop in five minutes. It’s extraordinarily helpful, you know. They feel they’re doing something constructive. Something socially worth while,” said Miss Able glowingly. “And once you can get these children, especially the introverted types, to do that, you’ve gone quite a bit of the way.”

Fenella and Paul, who had their backs to the children, nodded gravely. The little boy, having unseated the little girl, was making a brave attempt to bite the calf of her left leg.

“How are their heads?” Paul asked solemnly. Miss Able shrugged her shoulders. “Taking its course,” she said. “The doctor’s coming again tomorrow.”

Troy gave an involuntary exclamation, and at the same moment the little girl screamed so piercingly that her voice rang out above the singing, which instantly stopped.

“It’s — perhaps you ought to look,” said Troy, and Miss Able turned in time to see the little girl attempting strenuously to kick her opponent, who nevertheless maintained his hold on her leg. “Let go, you cow,” screamed the little girl.

“Patricia! David!” cried Miss Able firmly and strode towards them. The other children stopped work and listened in silence. The two principals, maintaining their hold on each other, broke into mutual accusations.

“Now, I wonder,” said Miss Able brightly, and with an air of interest, “just what made you two feel you’d like to have a fight.” Confused recriminations followed immediately. Miss Able seemed to understand them, and, to Troy’s astonishment, actually jotted down one or two notes in a little book, glancing at her watch as she did so.

“And now,” she said, still more brightly, “you feel ever so much better. You were just angry, and you had to work it off, didn’t you? But you know I can think of something that would be much better fun than fighting.”

“No, you can’t,” said the little girl instantly, and turned savagely on her opponent. “I’ll kill you,” she said, and fell upon him.

“Suppose,” shouted Miss Able with determined gaiety above the shrieks of the contestants, “we all shoulder spades and have a jolly good marching song.”

The little girl rolled clear of her opponent, scooped up a handful of earth, and flung it madly and accurately at Miss Able. The little boy and several of the other children laughed very loudly at this exploit. Miss Able, after a second’s pause, joined in their laughter.

“Little devil,” said Paul. “Honestly, Fenella, I really do think a damn good hiding—”

“No, no,” said Fenella, “it’s the method. Listen.”

The ever-jolly Miss Able was saying: “Well, I expect I do look pretty funny, don’t I? Now, come on, let’s all have a good rowdy game. Twos and threes. Choose your partners.”

The children split up into pairs, and Miss Able, wiping the earth off her face, joined the three onlookers.

“How you can put up with Panty,” Paul began.

“Oh, but she really is responding, splendidly,” Miss Able interrupted. “That’s the first fight in seven and a half hours, and David began it. He’s rather a bad case of maladjustment, I’m afraid. Now, Patricia,” she shouted. “Into the middle with you. And David, you see if you can catch her. One tries as far as possible,” she explained, “to divert the anger impulse into less emotional channels.”

They left her, briskly conducting the game, and continued their ascent. On the fourth terrace they encountered a tall and extremely good-looking woman dressed in tweeds and a felt hat, and wearing heavy gauntleted gloves.

“This is my mother,” said Paul Kentish.

Mrs Kentish greeted Troy rather uncertainly: “You’ve come to paint Father, haven’t you?” she said, inclining her head in the manner of a stage dowager. “Very nice. I do hope you’ll be comfortable. In these days — one can’t quite”—she brightened a little—“but perhaps as an artist you won’t mind rather a Bohemian—” Her voice trailed away and she turned to her son:

“Paul, darling,” she said richly, “you shouldn’t have walked up all those steps. Your poor leg. Fenella, dear, you shouldn’t have let him.”

“It’s good for my leg, Mother.”

Mrs Kentish shook her head and gazed mistily at her glowering son. “Such a brave old boy,” she said. Her voice, which was a warm one, shook a little, and Troy saw with embarrassment that her eyes had filled with tears. “Such an old Trojan,” she murmured. “Isn’t he, Fenella?”

Fenella laughed uncomfortably and Paul hastily backed away. “Where are you off to?” he asked loudly.

“To remind Miss Able it’s time to come in. Those poor children work so hard. I can’t feel — however. I’m afraid I’m rather old-fashioned, Mrs. Alleyn. I still feel a mother knows best.”

“Well, but Mother,” Paul objected, “something had to be done about Panty, didn’t it? I mean, she really was pretty frightful.”

“Poor old Panty!” said Mrs. Kentish bitterly.

“We’d better move on, Aunt Pauline,” Fenella said. “Cedric is driving up. He won’t do anything about unloading if I know him.”

“Cedric!” Mrs. Kentish repeated. “T’uh!”

She smiled rather grandly at Troy and left them.

“My mother,” Paul said uncomfortably, “gets in a bit of a flap about things. Doesn’t she, Fen?”

“Actually,” said Fenella, “they all do. That generation, I mean. Daddy rather wallows in emotion and Aunt Dessy’s a snorter at it. They get it from Grandfather, don’t you think?”

“All except Thomas.”

“Yes, all except Thomas. Don’t you think,” Fenella asked Troy, “that if one generation comes in rather hot and strong emotionally, the next generation swings very much the other way? Paul and I are as hard as nails, aren’t we, Paul?”