So what about Monday?’

Dinny wrinkled her rather tip-tilted nose. If, as she intended, she went to Lippinghall next week, Monday would be handy. It might, after all, be as well to see this American before declaring war on him.

‘All right, Uncle, and thank you very much. If you’re going West may I come with you? I want to see Aunt Emily and Uncle Lawrence. Mount Street’s on your way home.’

‘Right! When you’ve had your fill, we’ll start.’

‘I’m quite full,’ said Dinny, and got up.

Chapter Six

HER luck held, and she flushed her third Uncle contemplating his own house in Mount Street, as if he were about to make an offer for it.

‘Ah! Dinny, come along; your Aunt’s moulting, and she’ll be glad to see you. I miss old Forsyte,’ he added in the hall. ‘I was just considering what I ought to ask for this house if we let it next season. You didn’t know old Forsyte – Fleur’s father: he was a character.’

‘What is the matter with Aunt Em, Uncle Lawrence?’

‘Nothing, my dear. I think the sight of poor Old Uncle “Cuffs” has made her dwell on the future. Ever dwell on the future, Dinny? It’s a dismal period, after a certain age.’

He opened a door.

‘My dear, here’s Dinny.’

Emily, Lady Mont, was standing in her panelled drawing-room flicking a feather brush over a bit of Famille Verte, with her parakeet perched on her shoulder. She lowered the brush, advanced with a far-away look in her eyes, said ‘Mind, Polly,’ and kissed her niece. The parakeet transferred itself to Dinny’s shoulder and bent its head round inquiringly to look in her face.

‘He’s such a dear,’ said Lady Mont; ‘you won’t mind if he tweaks your ear? I’m so glad you came, Dinny; I’ve been so thinking of funerals. Do tell me your idea about the hereafter.’

‘Is there one, Auntie?’

‘Dinny! That’s so depressing.’

‘Perhaps those who want one have it.’

‘You’re like Michael. He’s so mental. Where did you pick Dinny up, Lawrence?’

‘In the street.’

‘That sounds improper. How is your father, Dinny? I hope he isn’t any the worse for that dreadful house at Porthminster. It did so smell of preserved mice.’

‘We’re all very worried about Hubert, Aunt Em.’

‘Ah! Hubert, yes. You know, I think he made a mistake to flog those men. Shootin’ them one can quite understand, but floggin’ is so physical and like the old Duke.’

‘Don’t you feel inclined to flog carters when they lash overloaded horses up-hill, Auntie?’

‘Yes, I do. Was that what they were doin’?’

‘Practically, only worse. They used to twist the mules’ tails and stick their knives into them, and generally play hell with the poor brutes.’

‘Did they? I’m so glad he flogged them; though I’ve never liked mules ever since we went up the Gemmi. Do you remember, Lawrence?’

Sir Lawrence nodded. On his face was the look, affectionate but quizzical, which Dinny always connected with Aunt Em.

‘Why, Auntie?’

‘They rolled on me; not they exactly, but the one I was ridin’. They tell me it’s the only time a mule has ever rolled on anybody – surefooted.’

‘Dreadful taste, Auntie!’

‘Yes; and most unpleasant – so internal. Do you think Hubert would like to come and shoot partridges at Lippinghall next week?’

‘I don’t think you could get Hubert to go anywhere just now. He’s got a terrible hump. But if you have a cubby-hole left for me, could I come?’

‘Of course. There’ll be plenty of room. Let’s see: just Charlie Muskham and his new wife, Mr Bentworth and Hen, Michael and Fleur, and Diana Ferse, and perhaps Adrian because he doesn’t shoot, and your Aunt Wilmet. Oh! ah! And Lord Saxenden.’

‘What!’ cried Dinny.

‘Why? Isn’t he respectable?’

‘But, Auntie – that’s perfect! He’s my objective.’

‘What a dreadful word; I never heard it called that before.