“Me!” Sir George ejaculated, apparently with relief and a kind of astonishment. The Colonel took two envelopes from his pocket and laid them on the desk. Sir George saw that they were addressed in his father’s writing.

“Read the letter first,” the Colonel said, indicating the smaller of the two envelopes. George gave him a wondering look. He screwed in his eyeglass, drew a single sheet of paper from the envelope, and began to read. As he did so, his mouth fell gently open and his expression grew increasingly blank. Once he looked up at the troubled Colonel as if to ask a question but seemed to change his mind and fell again to reading.

At last the paper dropped from his fingers and his monocle from his eye to his waistcoat.

“I don’t,” he said, “understand a word of it.”

“You will,” the Colonel said, “when you have looked at this.” He drew a thin sheaf of manuscript out of the larger envelope and placed it before George Lacklander. “It will take you ten minutes to read. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.”

“My dear fellow! Do sit down. What am I thinking of. A cigar! A drink.”

“No thank you, George. I’ll smoke a cigarette. No, don’t move. I’ve got one.”

George gave him a wondering look, replaced his eyeglass and began to read again. As he did so, his face went through as many changes of expression as those depicted in strip-advertisements. He was a rubicund man, but the fresh colour drained out of his face. His mouth lost its firmness and his eyes their assurance. When he raised a sheet of manuscript, it quivered in his grasp.

Once, before he had read to the end, he did speak. “But it’s not true,” he said. “We’ve always known what happened. It was well known.” He touched his lips with his fingers and read on to the end. When the last page had fallen on the others, Colonel Cartarette gathered them up and put them into their envelope.

“I’m damned sorry, George,” he said. “God knows I didn’t want to land you with all this.”

“I can’t see, now, why you’ve done it. Why bring it to me? Why do anything but throw it at the back of the fire?”

Cartarette said sombrely, “I see you haven’t listened to me. I told you. I’ve thought it over very carefully. He’s left the decision with me and I’ve decided I must publish…” he held up the long envelope… “this. I must, George. Any other course would be impossible.”

“But have you thought what it will do to us? Have you thought? It… it’s unthinkable. You’re an old friend, Maurice. My father trusted you with this business because he thought of you as a friend. In a way,” George added, struggling with an idea that was a little too big for him, “in a way he’s bequeathed you our destiny.”

“A most unwelcome legacy if it were so, but of course it’s not. You’re putting it altogether too high. I know, believe me, George, I know, how painful and distressing this will be to you all, but I think the public will take a more charitable view than you might suppose.”

“And since when,” George demanded with a greater command of rhetoric than might have been expected of him, “since when have the Lacklanders stood cap-in-hand, waiting upon the charity of the public?”

Colonel Cartarette’s response to this was a helpless gesture. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid that that sentiment has the advantage of sounding well and meaning nothing.”

“Don’t be so bloody supercilious.”

“All right, George, all right.”

“The more I think of this the worse it gets. Look here, Maurice, if for no other reason, in common decency…”

“I’ve tried to take common decency as my criterion.”

“It’ll kill my mother.”

“It will distress her very deeply, I know. I’ve thought of her, too.”

“And Mark? Ruin! A young man! My son! Starting on his career.”

“There was another young man, an only son, who was starting on his career.”

“He’s dead!” George cried out. “He can’t suffer. He’s dead.”

“And his name? And his father?”

“I can’t chop logic with you. I’m a simple sort of bloke with, I daresay, very unfashionable standards. I believe in the loyalty of friends and in the old families sticking together.”

“At whatever the cost to other friends and other old families? Come off it, George,” said the Colonel.

The colour flooded back into George’s face until it was empurpled. He said in an unrecognizable voice, “Give me my father’s manuscript. Give me that envelope. I demand it.”

“I can’t, old boy. Good God, do you suppose that if I could chuck it away or burn it with anything like a clear conscience I wouldn’t do it? I tell you I hate this job.”

He returned the envelope to the breast pocket of his coat. “You’re free, of course,” he said, “to talk this over with Lady Lacklander and Mark. Your father made no reservations about that. By the way, I’ve brought a copy of his letter in case you decide to tell them about it. Here it is.” The Colonel produced a third envelope, laid it on the desk and moved towards the door. “And George,” he said, “I beg you to believe I am sorry. I’m deeply sorry. If I could see any other way, I’d thankfully take it. What?”

George Lacklander had made an inarticulate noise. He now pointed a heavy finger at the Colonel.

“After this,” he said, “I needn’t tell you that any question of an understanding between your girl and my boy is at an end.”

The Colonel was so quiet for so long that both men became aware of the ticking of a clock on the chimney breast.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last, “that there was any question of an understanding. I think you must be mistaken.”

“I assure you that I am not. However, we needn’t discuss it. Mark… and Rose, I am sure… will both see that it is quite out of the question. No doubt you are as ready to ruin her chances as you are to destroy our happiness.” For a moment he watched the Colonel’s blank face. “She’s head over heels in love with him,” he added; “you can take my word for it.”

“If Mark has told you this…”

“Who says Mark told me?… I… I…”

The full, rather florid voice faltered and petered out.

“Indeed,” the Colonel said. “Then may I ask where you got your information?”

They stared at each other and, curiously, the look of startled conjecture which had appeared on George Lacklander’s face was reflected on the Colonel’s. “It couldn’t matter less, in any case,” the Colonel said. “Your informant, I am sure, is entirely mistaken. There’s no point in my staying. Goodbye.”

He went out. George, transfixed, saw him walk past the window. A sort of panic came over him. He dragged the telephone across his desk and with an unsteady hand dialled Colonel Cartarette’s number. A woman’s voice answered.

“Kitty!” he said. “Kitty, is that you?”

Colonel Cartarette went home by the right-of-way known as the River Path. It ran through Nunspardon from the top end of Watt’s Lane skirting the Lacklander’s private golf course. It wound down to Bottom Bridge and up the opposite side to the Cartarette’s spinney. From thence it crossed the lower portion of Commander Syce’s and Mr. Phinn’s demesnes and rejoined Watt’s Lane just below the crest of Watt’s Hill.

The Colonel was feeling miserable. He was weighed down by his responsibility and upset by his falling out with George Lacklander, who, pompous old ass though the Colonel thought him, was a lifetime friend. Worst of all, he was wretchedly disturbed by the suggestion that Rose had fallen in love with Mark and by the inference, which he couldn’t help drawing, that George Lacklander had collected this information from the Colonel’s wife.

As he walked down the hillside, he looked across the little valley into the gardens of Jacob’s Cottage, Uplands and Hammer Farm. There was Mr. Phinn dodging about with a cat on his shoulder: “like a blasted old warlock,” thought the Colonel, who had fallen out with Mr. Phinn over the trout stream, and there was poor Syce blazing away with his bow and arrow at his padded target. And there, at Hammer, was Kitty. With a characteristic movement of her hips she had emerged from the house in skintight velvet trousers and a flame-coloured top. Her long cigarette-holder was in her hand. She seemed to look across the valley at Nunspardon. The Colonel felt a sickening jolt under his diaphragm. “How I could!” he thought (though subconsciously). “How I could!” Rose was at her evening employment cutting off the deadheads in the garden. He sighed and looked up to the crest of the hill, and there plodding homewards, pushing her bicycle up Watt’s Lane, her uniform and hat appearing in gaps and vanishing behind hedges, was Nurse Kettle. “In Swevenings,” thought the Colonel, “she crops up like a recurring decimal.”