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stay with Army relations stationed in Delhi. When the hot weather came, the entire household decamped north to the cool hills and Poona, and it was here that Louise met Jack Forrester. Jack was a major in the Bengal Rifles and had just spent twelve months holed up in some remote mountain fort, skirmishing from time to time with warlike Afghans. He was in Poona on leave, desperate, after months of celibacy, for female companionship; and Louise — young, pink-cheeked, unattached and athletic — glimpsed bounding about on a tennis court, seemed to his hungry and bedazzled eyes a most desirable creature. With enormous determination but little finesse — there was no time for finesse — he pursued her, and before he knew what was happening discovered himself engaged to be married.
    Oddly enough, it was a sound marriage, although…or perhaps because…they were never blessed with children. Instead, they shared a love of the open-air life, and all the glorious opportunities for sport and game that India offered. There were hunting parties and expeditions up into the hills; horses for riding and playing polo, and every opportunity for tennis and the golf at which Louise excelled. When Jack was finally retired from the Army and they returned to England, they settled in Penmarron, simply because of the proximity of the golf course, and the club became their home away from home. In inclement weather they played bridge, but most fine days saw them out on the fairways. As well, a certain amount of time was spent at the bar, where Jack earned the doubtful reputation of being able to drink any man under the table. He boasted of having a stomach like a bucket and all his friends agreed, until one bright Saturday morning, when he dropped dead on the fourteenth green. After that they weren't so sure.
    Molly was in Ceylon when this sad event occurred, and wrote a letter of the deepest sympathy, being unable to imagine how Louise would manage without Jack. Such friends they had been, such pals. But when finally they did meet up again, she could find no change in Louise at all. She looked the same, lived in the same house, enjoyed the same life-style. Every day saw her out on the golf course, and because she had an excellent handicap and could thwack the ball as hard as any man, was never short of male partners.
    Now, she reached for her cigarette case, opened it, and fitted a Turkish cigarette into an ivory holder. She lit it with a gold lighter which had once belonged to her late husband.
    ‘How,’ she asked Judith through a cloud of smoke, ‘did the Christmas party go?’
    ‘It was all right. We did Sir Roger de Coverley. And there were saffron buns.’ Judith eyed the tea-table. ‘But I'm still hungry.’
    ‘Well, we've left plenty for you to finish up,’ said Molly. Judith pulled up a low stool and settled herself between the two women, her nose on a level with all Phyllis's goodies. ‘Do you want milk or tea?’
    ‘I'll have milk, thank you.’ She reached for a plate and a scone and began to eat, cautiously, because the thick cream and strawberry jam were spread so generously that they were liable to squidge out and drop all over the place.
    ‘Did you say goodbye to all your friends?’
    ‘Yes. And Mr Thomas and everybody. And we all got a bag of sweets, but I've given mine to Jess. And then I walked down the hill with Heather—’
    ‘Who is Heather?’ asked Aunt Louise.
    ‘Heather Warren. She's my special friend.’
    ‘You know,’ said Molly, ‘Mr Warren, the grocer in the Market Place.’
    ‘Oh!’
Aunt Louise raised her eyebrows and became arch. ‘The dashing Spaniard. Such a good-looking man. Even if he didn't sell my favourite Tiptrees marmalade, I think I should have to give him my custom.’
    She was obviously in a good mood. Judith decided that this was the right moment to broach the subject of the bicycle. Strike while the iron's hot, as Mrs Warren liked to say. Take the bull by the horns.
    ‘Actually,