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kindly eye, Lucy declared that a cocktail would exactly fill the bill, while Daisy opted for tea.
    â€œI expect you’d like to powder your noses before you join us,” Pritchard suggested, adding with an air of gallantry, “not that I mean to suggest your noses need powdering. The cloakroom’s just through there, first door on the left.”
    As they followed his directions, Lucy said, “Thank heaven he didn’t offer to demonstrate the plumbing!”
    â€œI wish you’d stop expecting him to drop a brick. I think he’s rather a nice little man.”
    When they returned to the hall, the butler, Barker, was waiting to usher them into the drawing room. It was a large room, furnished with an eye to comfort and cheerfulness. The only sign of plumbing was several radiators, augmenting with their welcome warmth the fire crackling in the Adam fireplace. The delicate plasterwork of the mantel was complemented by the ceiling’s wreathes, rosettes, and ribbons. If Mr. Pritchard had been tempted to embellish these with depictions of urns, fountains, or other evidence of his trade, he had resisted the temptation. The walls hinted of watery influences, however, beingpapered in willow-green with a slight sheen, narrowly striped in pale blue.
    Pin-striped
, in fact, Daisy thought, as their equally pin-striped host bounced up from a easy-chair and came towards them. He must be in his mid-or late-fifties, she thought, but he was as spry as a man half his age, and his hair, though grey verging on white, was still thick.
    â€œCome in, come in do, come to the fire and get warm. Let’s see, now, you know Lady Beaufort, don’t you, and Miss Beaufort? A reunion of old friends. What could be better?”
    Sir Frederick Beaufort’s widow, a large stately woman in forest green, seated at the fireside, gave a small stately bow, but her smile was friendly. “Lady Gerald, Mrs. Fletcher, how pleasant to see you again. Julia has been looking forward to your arrival.”
    â€œI have indeed,” Julia said warmly. “Hello, Lucy. Daisy, it’s ages since I saw you.”
    â€œYears,” said Daisy. Seven years, since her father’s funeral in 1919. What with the death toll of the War and the influenza pandemic, which had killed Lord Dalrymple, his funeral had not been well attended, but Julia had been there.
    They had not been particularly close friends at school, in spite of both being fonder of books than sports. Julia had been shy, at that age a crippling affliction, one that Daisy never suffered from. Julia had been cursed with spots, while Daisy’s Nemesis was freckles, much easier to live with. And though Daisy had never attained slimness, and now likely never would, Julia in her teen years had been positively pudgy.
    But Julia, in her late twenties, had emerged from her chrysalis and was absolutely stunning. Her hair could have been described as spun gold without too much of the usual gross exaggeration. Worn in a long bob, it framed a spotless peaches-and-cream complexion with no need of powder or rouge. Without being rail-thin, she was slender enough to look marvellous in a silk teadress in the still-current straight up-and-down fashion, with hip-level waist, which Daisy had hoped would die a natural death long since.
    Daisy looked at her with admiration and envy. The envy faded as she reminded herself that despite her own unmodish figure and merely light brown hair, worn shingled, she had Alec, whereas Julia apparently faced a choice between a rhinoceros and a plumber’s nephew.
    Not that Daisy had anything against plumbers.
    Mr. Plumber . . . Mr. Pritchard, rather, next introduced a short, tubby woman, sixtyish, her coils of white hair sternly confined in a net, her plumpness sternly confined in a black frock embroidered with jet beads. “My sister-in-law, my late wife’s sister, Mrs. Howell, who keeps house for me.”
    â€œActs as your hostess,