The Sunday had been nerve-racking. She felt she was on show. Many years it was since she had entered the Trants’ house. In those early days she had come in as Helen’s school friend, and nobody had taken much notice of her. Mr. Trant had chattered amiable trivialities and chaffed her about her red hair. Now all was immensely different. She was George’s _fiancée_. She had to be treated with deference. Mr. Trant discussed the weather and gardening and (to the utmost extent of his capabilities) music. Mrs. Trant was effusively embarrassed. Helen was rather frigid. After tea they went into the drawing-room. Catherine and Mrs. Trant sat for some time together on the couch turning over the pages of a photograph album with careful enthusiasm. In it were portrayed the Trant family in various stages of development--the Trant family when it had anybody distinguished to stay with it for the week-end; the Trant family at the door of its house, on Llandudno Pier, at Chamounix, on the promenade deck of a P. and O. liner, and in other less idyllic positions; the Trant family taking tea on the lawn, picnicking in Epping Forest, about to set out for a motor spin, skating on the Connaught Waters at Chingford, playing tennis (_a_) on its own grass court, (_b_) on its own rubble court; the Trant family in fancy dress, evening dress, riding dress, Alpine dress, and every other kind of dress--in short, the Trant family in every conceivable phase of its existence. Also the Trant family individually, collectively, and in permutations and combinations. With studious politeness Catherine enquired from time to time as to the identity of the various strangers who obtruded themselves upon the Trant arena. Here were Sir Miles Coppull (the American camphor king, holding a tennis-racket jauntily); the Rev. R. P. Cole (President of the Baptist Association); the Rev. St. Eves Bruce, M.A., D.D. (headmaster of George’s old public school), beaming on Helen, by the way; not to mention groups of fierce old gentlemen whom Mrs. Trant lumped collectively as “some of Dad’s directors.” ... Catherine thought: “Some day I shall be amongst all that lot...” George suggested she should play a piano solo, and she tried a Beethoven symphony movement. But she was unaccountably nervous, and a valuable but rather gimcrack china and ivory model of the Taj Mahal at Agra which was placed on top of the closed sound-board _would_ rattle whenever she played the chord of E flat or its inversions. When she stopped playing Mr. Trant said: “Let me see, is that Beethoven?” (He pronounced the first syllable to rhyme with “see” and the second with “grove.”) “Yes.” “Charming little thing,” he said vaguely....