How this betterment was to take place, Mr. Tovey never explained. But sometimes he had a vague intangible dream of Ivy, his Ivy, captivating the heart of some susceptible employer, preferably of the upper classes. His eye, diverted for the moment from the business of wrapping up a parcel of leeks, often caught sight of the pictures in the newspaper which he was using for the purpose. “Lady Mary Mayfair (right) and the Countess of Piccadilly (left) on the lawn at Ascot.” Suppose that one day he should proudly open the paper to find Ivy with a smile like that, gracefully posing under the heading “A leader of Society in the paddock at Goodwood”? After all, why not?

But it was not until after the second helping of roast beef and Yorkshire that he made any further remark about his daughter to Mrs. Tovey. “I wouldn’t encourage young Ted to hang around Ivy too much, if I was you,” he said, as he pushed aside his plate.