Margot, under the same circumstances, would have said “No.” She decided that Joyce’s sincerity might be reckoned her cheval de bataille. She expressed sympathy, offering to send her maid to fetch some aspirin tabloids from the Hall. Joyce made light of a petty ailment. The sun was rather hot. Her headache would pass. As the two girls talked one of the village mothers passed by, dragging a toddler of her own. The child caught her foot in the ropes of the marquee, fell heavily, and began to howl. Joyce jumped up, snatched the child from the ground, crooned over it, hugged it, made it laugh, whilst the young mother stood sheepishly looking on.
“Leave her with me for a few minutes,” said Joyce.
The mother moved on, the child cuddled up to Joyce, and then fell asleep. Margot said in a whisper.
“That was amazing. How do you do it?”
“I am fond of children.”
“And this one is a special favourite?”
“No; I don’t think I know this child. The mother is from Ocknell. She married a Nether-Applewhite man, but they have only come here lately.”
“It’s magic.”
Presently the mother came back, but the child left Joyce reluctantly. Margot thought that she had guessed the riddle.
“She must ill-treat the child.”