‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. It jars with all my ideas. ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really.
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