The scrubbed table was laid as a matter of course for twelve people because the household consisted of ten and “You never knew who’d drop in for a bite.” To this table in their appointed seasons came Aylesbury ducklings, turkeys, geese, fat capons, rook-pie, pigs’-fry and faggots, lambs’-tails, and such time-honoured delicacies as frumenty, biffins, lardy-cakes, sparrib-pie, love-in-disguise, fairings and gingerbread-husbands. There was always a bowl of cream big enough to drown a cat in, and a Double Gloucester cheese the size and shape of a grindstone, and without fail on Michaelmas Day Mrs. Pargetter made three dozen Christmas puddings just as her mother and her grandmother had done before her: never one more nor one less.

Miss Pargetter was therefore very shocked indeed when she discovered that it was Stephen’s habit to nibble a couple of small sandwiches for his lunch. She had an agricultural contempt for sandwiches; they were all right for the gentry who went picnicking for fun, but you wouldn’t think of sending your own men out with sandwiches for their mid-morning bait. You would cut them inch-thick slices of bread, well daubed with butter and accompanied by slabs of cold meat or fat bacon plastered with mustard; and if you forgot to add a quarter of a pound of Double Gloucester the men would come home grumbling at dinner-time. Sandwiches were therefore anathema to Miss Pargetter,

She dealt with the situation in her own way. Without a word to Stephen she brought in four brown eggs and four slices of ham. At lunch-time, which she called dinner-time, she locked the front door of the shop and went up uninvited into Stephen’s little flat, where she spent rather a long time scrubbing the frying-pan with wire-wool, having fore-sightedly provided herself with this necessity. She then cooked the ham and eggs and called “Dinner’s ready.”

Stephen, in his office, was on the telephone. The voice of Sir Almeric Jukes was drawling contemptuously into his ear:

“And if you think I’m goin’ to risk my valuable cattle in the company of diseased ridin’-school hosses you’re wrong, Mr. Stephen Tasker, you’re wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” said Stephen patiently. “I didn’t quite gather what you thought the horse was suffering from?”

“Strangles,” shouted Sir Almeric. “D’ye hear, strangles? I felt the brute’s neck and there were lumps on it. So unless you get the vet and he gives it a clean bill of health you’ll have none of my horses for your Pageant. And that’s flat, Mr. Stephen Tasker,” he added offensively.

Stephen wearily put down the telephone. It had been his worst morning so far. Everybody was in a muddle, from the Wardrobe Mistress to the lighting man, and they had all brought their muddles in succession to the small back room. The knitters of chainmail had run out of wool; the painters of chainmail had run out of silver paint. The carpenters, admittedly, had settled their strike, but the electricians were just starting one. The printers had lost the block which was to go on the cover of the programme. Robin had declared he could design no more dresses unless he was provided with an expensive and unobtainable book on heraldry. The Cricket Club had failed to agree about who should represent W. G. Grace: a part which required not simply a beard from Clarkson’s but the ability to hit sixes which Clarkson’s couldn’t provide. The Rowing Club, with nobody’s authority, had spent twenty pounds on decorating a barge for Bloody Mary more elaborate than Cleopatra’s. The Bank Manager was concerned about the increasing overdraft and had rung up to ask who was going to guarantee it. Finally, just before one, the Vicar had arrived with a bundle of nineteenth-century Punches for which he had practically demanded twenty-five shillings. Outside it was mizzling with cold rain, water poured in runnels off the Vicar’s bald head and the silvery drops furred his old cassock, which he shook all over the shop like a dog which has been in the river. “The pride of the morning, my boy,” beamed the Vicar, pocketing a pound note and two half-crowns.