Connie became insistent.

Hilda bent her Minerva-like head in silence. Then she looked up.

“Do you want to tell me who he is,” she said.

“He’s our gamekeeper,” faltered Connie, and she flushed vividly, like a shamed child.

“Connie!” said Hilda, lifting her nose slightly with disgust: a motion she had from her mother.

“I know: but he’s lovely really. He really understands tenderness,” said Connie, trying to apologise for him.

Hilda, like a ruddy, rich-coloured Athena, bowed her head and pondered. She was really violently angry. But she dared not show it, because Connie, taking after her father, would straightway become obstreperous and unmanageable.