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?’
Troy turned to the young man. He was staring fixedly at his cousin. His dark brows were knitted and his lips were pressed together. He looked preternaturally solemn and did not answer Fenella. ‘Why,’ thought Troy, ‘he’s in love with her.’
II
The interior of Ancreton amply sustained the promise of its monstrous façade. Troy was to learn that ‘great’ was the stock adjective at Ancreton. There was the Great West Spinney, the Great Gallery and the Great Tower. Having crossed the Great Drawbridge over the now dry and cultivated moat, Troy, Fenella, and Paul entered the Great Hall.
Here the tireless ingenuity of the architect had flirted with a number of Elizabethan conceits. There was a plethora of fancy carving, a display of stained-glass windows bearing the Ancred arms, and a number of presumably collateral quarterings. Between these romped occasional mythical animals, and, when mythology and heraldry had run short, the Church had not been forgotten, for crosslets-ancred stood cheek-by-jowl in mild confusion with the keys of St. Peter and the Cross of St. John of Jerusalem.
Across the back of the hall, facing the entrance, ran a minstrels’ gallery, energetically chiselled and hung at intervals with banners. Beneath this, on a wall whose surface was a mass of scrolls and bosses, the portrait, Fenella explained, was to hang. By day, as Troy at once noticed, it would be chequered all over with the reflected colours of a stained-glass heraldry and would take on the aspect of a jig-saw puzzle. By night, according to Paul, it would be floodlit by four lamps specially installed under the gallery.
There were a good many portraits already in the hall, and Troy’s attention was caught by an enormous canvas above the fireplace depicting a nautical Ancred of the eighteenth century, who pointed his cutlass at a streak of forked lightning with an air of having made it himself. Underneath this work, in a huge arm-chair, warming himself at the fire, was Cedric.
‘People are seeing about the luggage,’ he said, struggling to his feet, ‘and one of the minor ancients has led away the horse. Someone has carried dearest Mrs. Alleyn’s paints up to her inaccessible eyrie. Do sit down, Mrs. Alleyn. You must be madly exhausted. My Mama is on her way. The Old Person’s entrance is timed for eight-thirty. We have a nice long time in which to relax. The Ancient of Days, at my suggestion, is about to serve drinks. In the name of my ridiculous family, in fact, welcome to Katzenjammer Castle.’
‘Would you like to see your room first?’ asked Fenella.
‘Let me warn you,’ Cedric added, ‘that the visit will entail another arduous climb and a long tramp. Where have they put her, Fenella?’
‘The Siddons room.’
‘I couldn’t sympathise more deeply, but of course the choice is appropriate. A steel engraving of that abnormally muscular actress in the rôle of Lady Macbeth hangs over the washhand-stand, doesn’t it, Fenella? I’m in the Garrick, which is comparatively lively, especially in the rat season. Here comes the Ancient of Days. Do have a stirrup-cup before you set out on your polar expedition.’
An extremely old man-servant was coming across the hall with a tray of drinks. ‘Barker,’ said Cedric faintly. ‘You are welcome as flowers in spring.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cedric,’ said the old man. ‘Sir Henry’s compliments, Miss Fenella, and he hopes to have the pleasure of joining you at dinner. Sir Henry hopes Mrs. Alleyn has had a pleasant journey.’
Troy said that she had, and wondered if she should return a formal message. Cedric,
