Hilary was perched on the top of the stepladder. He looked down through green foliage and golden baubles at Troy.

“You don’t approve,” he said. “You think I’m effete and heartless and have lost my sense of spiritual values.”

This came uncomfortably near to what in fact Troy had been thinking.

“You may be right,” he went on before she could produce an answer. “But at least I don’t pretend. For instance, I’m a snob. I set a lot of importance on my being of ancient lineage. I wouldn’t have proposed to my lovely, lovely Cressida if she’d had a tatty origin. I value family trees even more than Christmas trees. And I love being rich and able to have a truly golden tree.”

“Oh,” Troy said, “I’ve nothing but praise for the golden tree.”

“I understand you perfectly. You must pray for me in the chapel tomorrow.”

“I’m not qualified.”

Hilary said, “Never mind about all that. I’ve been keeping the chapel as a surprise. It really is quite lovely.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“In the context,” said Hilary, “it doesn’t arise. Be an angel and hand up a bauble.”

It was midnight when they had completed their work. They stood at the other end of the long room before the dying fire and admired it.

“There will be no light but the candles,” Hilary said. “It will be perfectly magical. A dream-tree. I hope the children will be enchanted, don’t you?”

“They can’t fail. I shall go to bed, now, I think.”

“How nice it’s been, doing it with you,” he said, linking his arm in hers and leading her down the room. “It has quite taken away all that other beastly nonsense. Thank you so much. Have you admired Nigel’s kissing bough?”

They were under it. Troy looked up and was kissed.

“Happy Christmas,” said Hilary.

She left him there and went up to her room.

When she opened her wardrobe she was surprised to hear a murmur of voices in the Forresters’ room. It was distant and quite indistinguishable but as she hung up her dress she heard footsteps tread towards her and the Colonel’s voice, close at hand, said very loudly and most decisively: “No, my dear, that is absolutely final. And if you don’t, I will.”

A door slammed. Troy had a picture of Mrs. Forrester banging her way into their bathroom but a moment later had to reverse this impression into one of her banging her way back into the bedroom. Her voice rose briefly and indistinctly. The Colonel’s footfall receded. Troy hastily shut the wardrobe door and went to bed.

Christmas day came in with a wan glint of sunshine. The view from Troy’s bedroom might have been framed by robins, tinsel and holly. Snow took the sting out of a landscape that could have been set up during the night for Hilary’s satisfaction.

As she dressed, Troy could hear the Forresters shouting to each other next door and concluded that the Colonel was back on his usual form. When she opened her wardrobe she heard the now familiar jangle of coat hangers on the other side.

“Good-morning!” Troy shouted. She tapped on the common wall. “Happy Christmas!” she cried.

A man’s voice said, “Thank you, madam. I’ll tell the Colonel and Mrs. Forrester.”

Moult.

She heard him go away. There was a distant conjunction of voices and then he returned, discreetly tapping on the wall.

“The Colonel and Mrs. Forrester’s compliments, madam, and they would be very happy if you would look in.”

“In five minutes,” Troy shouted. “Thank you.”

When she made her call she found Colonel and Mrs. Forrester in bed and bolt upright under a green-lined umbrella of the sort associated with Victorian missionaries and Empire builders. The wintry sun lay across their counterpane. Each wore a scarlet dressing gown the skirts of which were deployed round the wearer like some monstrous calyx. They resembled gods of a sort.

In unison they wished Troy a Happy Christmas and invited her to sit down.

“Being an artist,” Mrs. Forrester said, “you will not find it out-of-the-way to be informally received.”

At the far end of the room a door into their bathroom stood open and beyond that a second door into a dressing-room where Moult could be seen brushing a suit.

“I had heard,” said Troy, “about the umbrella.”

“We don’t care for the sun in our eyes. I wonder,” said Mrs. Forrester, “if I might ask you to shut the bathroom door. Thank you very much. Moult has certain prejudices which we prefer not to arouse. Fred, put in your aid. I said put in your aid.”

Colonel Forrester, who had smiled and nodded a great deal without seeming to hear anything much, found his hearing aid on his bedside table and fitted it into his ear.

“It’s a wonderful invention,” he said. “I’m a little worried about wearing it tonight, though. But, after all, the wig’s awfully long. A Druid with a visible hearing aid would be too absurd, don’t you think?”

“First of all,” Mrs. Forrester began, “were there any developments after we went to bed?”

“We’re dying to know,” said the Colonel.

Troy told them about Mr. Smith and. the soap. Mrs. Forrester rubbed her nose vexedly. “That’s very tiresome,” she said. “It upsets my theory. Fred, it upsets my theory.”

“Sickening for you, B.”

“And yet, does it? I’m not so sure. It might be a ruse, you know, I said…”

“I’m wearing my aid, B.”

“What,” Troy asked, “is your theory?”

“I was persuaded that Smith wrote the letters.”

“But surely…”

“He’s a good creature in many ways but his sense of humour is coarse and he dislikes Cressida Tottenham.”

“B, my dear, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No you’re not. You’re afraid I’m right. He doesn’t think she’s good enough for Hilary. Nor do I.”

“Be that as it may, B —”

“Be that as it is, you mean. Don’t confuse me, Fred.”

“— Bert Smith would certainly not write that disgraceful message to me. About you.”

“I don’t agree. He’d think it funny.”

The Colonel looked miserable. “But it’s not,” he said.

“Hilary thought it funny,” Mrs. Forrester said indignantly and turned to Troy. “Did you? I suppose Hilary told you what it said.”

“In general terms.”

“Well? Funny?”

Troy said, “At the risk of making myself equally objectionable I’m afraid I’ve got to confess that —”

“Very well. You need go no further.” Mrs. Forrester looked at her husband and remarked, astoundingly. “Impertinent, yes. Unfounded, of course. Preposterous, not so farfetched as you may suppose.”

A reminiscent gleam, Troy could have sworn, came into Mrs. Forrester’s eye.

“I don’t believe Bert would make himself sick,” the Colonel urged.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mrs. Forrester said darkly. “However,” she continued with a wave of her hand, “that is unimportant. What I wished to talk to you about, Mrs. Alleyn, is the line I hope we shall all take in this matter. Fred and I have decided to ignore it. To dismiss it —” she swept her arm across the Colonel, who blinked and drew back “— entirely. As if it had never been. We refuse to give the perpetrator of these insults, the satisfaction of paying them the slightest attention. We hope you will join us in this stand.”

“Because,” her husband added, “it would only spoil everything— the tree and so on. We’re having a rehearsal after church and one must give one’s full attention.”

“And you’re quite recovered, Colonel?”

“Yes, yes, quite, thank you. It’s my old ticker, you know. A leaky valve or some nonsense of that sort, the quacks tell me. Nothing to fuss about.”

“Well,” Troy said, getting up, “I’ll agree — mum’s the word.”

“Good. That settles that. I don’t know how this gel of yours is going to behave herself, Fred.”

“She’s not mine, B.”

“She was your responsibility.”

“Not now, though.” The Colonel turned towards Troy but did not look at her. His face was pink. He spoke rapidly as if he had memorized his observations and wished to get rid of them. “Cressida,” he explained, “is the daughter of a young fellow in my regiment. Germany. 1950. We were on an exercise and my jeep overturned.” Here the Colonel’s eyes filled with tears. “And do you know this dear fellow got me out? I was pinned face down in the mud and he got me out and then the most dreadful things happened. Collapse. Petrol. And I promised him I’d keep an eye on the child.”