the moulding of the cornices, the shape of the windows, the view of the courtyard from the dining-room and of attics and chimney-cowls from the drawing-room, the closed anthracite stoves in lieu of fires, the crockery, the wine-bottle, the mustard, the grey salt, the unconventional gestures and smiles and exclamations of the unkempt maid—­all these strange details enchanted him, and they all set off very vividly the intense, nice, honest, reassuring Englishness of the host and hostess.

It was not until after the others were seated for the meal that Laurencine made her appearance.  She was a magnificent and handsome virgin, big-boned, physically a little awkward, candid.  How exquisitely and absurdly she flushed in shaking hands with George!  With what a delicious mock-furious setting of the teeth and tossing of the head she frowned at her mother’s reproaches for being late!  This family knew the meaning of intimacy but not of ceremony.  Laurencine sat down at her father’s left; George was next to her on Mrs. Ingram’s right.  Lois had the whole of the opposite side of the table.

“Does he know?” Laurencine asked; and turning to George:  “Do you know?”

“Know what?”

“You’d better tell him, dad.  You like talking, and he ought to know.  I shan’t be able to eat if he doesn’t.  It would be so ridiculous sitting here and pretending.”

Mrs. Ingram looked upwards across the room at a corner of the ceiling, and smiled faintly.

“You might,” she said, “begin by asking Mr. Cannon if he particularly wants to be burdened with the weight of your secrets, my dear child.”

“Oh!  I particularly do,” said George.

“There’s no secret about it—­at least there won’t be soon,” said Laurencine.

Lois spoke simultaneously: 

“My dear mother, please call George George.  If we call him George, you can’t possibly call him Mr. Cannon.”

“I quite admit,” Mrs. Ingram replied to her eldest, “I quite admit that you and Laurencine are entitled to criticise my relations with my husband, because he’s your father.  But I propose to carry on my affairs with other men just according to my own ideas, and any interference will be resented.  I’ve had a bad night, owing to the garage again, and I don’t feel equal to calling George George.  I’ve only known him about twenty minutes.  Moreover, I might be misunderstood, mightn’t I, Mr. Cannon?”

“You might,” said George.

“Now, dad!” Laurencine admonished.

Mr. Ingram, addressing George, began: 

“Laurencine suffers from a grave form of self-consciousness——­”

“I don’t, dad.”

“It is a disease akin to conceit.  Her sufferings are sometimes so acute that she cannot sit up straight and is obliged to loll and curl her legs round the legs of the chair.  We are all very sorry for her.  The only treatment is brutal candour, as she herself advocates——­”

Laurencine jumped up, towered over her father, and covered his mouth with her hand.