“My dear old Michael, we never supposed you’d been hiding in the cistern-cupboard for a fortnight,” said Stella, striking three chords of cheerful contempt. “I believe he went back to Oxford,” suggested Alan. “I am going up to-morrow,” Michael said. “When is your Viva?” “Next week. Where are you going to stay?” “In college, if I can get hold of a room.” “Bother Oxford,” interrupted Stella. “We want to know where you’ve been this fortnight.” “You do,” Alan corrected. “I’ll tell you both later on,” Michael volunteered. “Just at present I suppose you won’t grudge me a secret. People who are engaged to be married should show a very special altruism toward people who are not.” “Michael, I will not have you being important and carrying about a secret with you,” Stella declared. “You can manage either me or Alan,” Michael offered. “But you simply shall not manage both of us. Personally, I recommend you to break-in Alan.” With evasive banter he succeeded in postponing the revelation of what he was, as Stella said, up to. “We’re going in for Herefords,” Alan suddenly announced without consideration for the trend of the talk. “You know. Those white-faced chaps.” Michael looked at him in astonishment. “I was thinking about this place of Stella’s in Huntingdonshire,” Alan explained. “We went down to see it last week.” “Oh, Alan, why did you tell him? He doesn’t deserve to be told.” “Is it decent?” Michael asked. “Awfully decent,” said Alan. “Rather large, you know.” “In fact, we shall belong to the squirearchy,” cried Stella, crashing down upon the piano with the first bars of Chopin’s most exciting Polonaise and from the Polonaise going off into an absurd impromptu recitative. “We shall have a dog-cart—a high and shining dog-cart—and we shall go bowling down the lanes of the county of Hunts—because in books about people who live in the county and of the county and by with or from the county dog-carts invariably bowl—we shall have a herd of Herefordshire bulls and bullocks and bullockesses—and my husband Alan with a straw in his mouth will go every morning with the bailiff to inspect their well-being—and three days every week from November to March we shall go hunting in Huntingdon—and when we aren’t actually hunting in Huntingdon we shall be talking about hunting—and we shall also talk about the Primrose League and the foot-and-mouth disease and the evolutions of the new High Church Vicar—we shall....” But Michael threw a cushion at her, and the recitative came to an end. They all three talked for a long while more seriously of plans for life at Hardingham Hall.