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Two houses more unlike each other could hardly be imagined—Doleham Manor sprawling and miscellaneous behind its classical front, Pookreed square and compact, offering to the sunset the honest red face of a Sussex tile-hung farmhouse. The Cheynells had never done anything to make it look unlike a farm, though inside they had made various improvements and modernizations. In many ways Pookreed was a more comfortable home than the Manor House.

On this special evening it was full of red sunshine. The western light poured in with the first movements of a night breeze. The Cheynells were old people and liked the heat, so the blinds were not drawn in the big, high-ceilinged dining room where they sat at dinner. Nicholas Cheynell was just beginning his seventy-sixth year and was as deeply taprooted a countryman as his cousin Tom, even to the extent, now rare, of carrying on his tongue some of the drawling breadth of local speech. Lady Anne Cheynell was a few years younger than her husband and a great deal smaller and slighter. He wore a dark suit and she wore a trailing gown. They always dressed for dinner, even though they had to cook it and wash it up themselves.