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herself smirking. She felt Cecil would be forming a very poor impression of all of them.
    ‘I’m no expert on poetry,’ said Hubert, with sweet redundancy, and seemed ready to head them off in another direction.
    ‘I’m less up to date with English poetry,’ said Elspeth.
    Harry said, ‘I always enjoy Strachey’s pieces in the Spectator – you must know him, I suppose?’
    Again, perhaps, was the boys’ Club in the air, that fearfully important ‘Conversazione Society’ she wasn’t allowed to mention? ‘We do see Lytton from time to time,’ Cecil said, with an air of discretion.
    ‘Now he’s awfully clever,’ said Elspeth.
    ‘Who’s that, dear?’ said Freda.
    ‘Lytton Strachey – you must have seen his Landmarks in French Literature .’
    ‘Oh . . . I . . . ?’
    ‘Harry thought less highly of it than I did.’
    ‘I prefer a heavier ratio of fact to hot air,’ said Harry.
    ‘We all believe Lytton will do something brilliant one day,’ said Cecil suavely.
    ‘I don’t care for him,’ said George.
    ‘Now, why’s that, dear?’ said Freda mockingly, though she didn’t think she’d ever heard of this man Strachey before a minute ago.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ muttered George, and blushed, and then looked rather cross.
    ‘No one could deny,’ said Cecil, ‘that poor Strachey has the most unfortunate speaking voice.’
    ‘Oh . . . ?’ Freda knew she mustn’t catch Daphne’s eye.
    ‘What you musical types I believe call a falsetto . It makes any sort of public speaking impossible for him.’
    ‘Even his private speaking’s pretty impossible,’ said George.
    ‘Well, happily, we don’t have to hear the fellow,’ said Harry; ‘or, in your mother’s case, read him either.’ He looked at Freda beside him with a smirk of almost parental collusion, and then at Hubert, who laughed uncertainly. It would be something one had to put up with, his cool good humour curdling into sarcasm. He was a kind and generous man, oddly generous perhaps for one so cool, but you couldn’t be sure he would make the right effect.
    ‘Well, on the matter of at least semi-public speaking . . .’ said Cecil archly, and gave a strange look at Daphne.
    ‘Oh yes!’ said Daphne, with a child’s alertness at the sudden touch of attention. ‘What about our readings, Cecil?’
    ‘Oh, my dear, what’s this?’ said Freda, fearing Daphne was about to bore their guests.
    ‘It was Cecil’s idea,’ said Daphne.
    ‘He may have said it just to be kind,’ said Freda.
    ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Cecil.
    ‘Mother, Cecil has offered to read to us!’ said Daphne, almost as if Freda were deaf, as well as mad to ignore such an offer.
    Freda said, ‘Well, that is very kind, Cecil, whatever you may say. If you’re sure . . . ?’ She herself, of course, had suggested something similar the night before, to get them in from the garden.
    ‘Perhaps you’ll read us some of your own work?’ Harry said, with a solemn look, to show Cecil that its fame had gone before him.
    Cecil smiled and looked down again. ‘Well, Daphne and I hatched this plan, do you see, that everyone would read out their own favourite poem of Tennyson’s.’
    ‘Goodness, I don’t know,’ said Freda, thinking she couldn’t without her glasses. And Hubert said warmly,
    ‘Oh no, old chap, we’d much rather listen to you.’
    ‘Well, if you’d really like that . . .’ said Cecil, with a clever little show of discomfort.
    Freda looked at Daphne, whose own desire to perform for them all seemed sunk in her fascination with Cecil. To a hostess such a reading was potentially awkward, but of course it might turn out to be a triumph and a thing they’d remember for years. Harry had asked for it, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. She had a dread of Harry being bored. She said, ‘Well, then – after dinner . . . !’ And then, ‘You know we met him, of course . . . ?’
    ‘Now this will interest you, Cecil,’ said Hubert.
    ‘Met whom, my