After dinner they went to a whist drive and dance in the village hall. By half‑past two the house was quiet; at half‑past three Lord Parakeet arrived, slightly drunk and in evening clothes, having 'just escaped less than one second ago' from Alastair Trumpington's twenty‑first birthday party in London.
'Alastair was with me some of the way, he said, 'but I think he must have fallen out.
The party, or some of it, reassembled in pyjamas to welcome him. Parakeet walked round bird‑like and gay, pointing his thin white nose and making rude little jokes at everyone in turn in a shrill, emasculate voice. At four the house was again at rest.
* * *
Only one of the guests appeared to be at all ill at ease: Sir Humphrey Maltravers, the Minister of Transportation. He arrived early in the day with a very large car and two very small suitcases, and from the first showed himself as a discordant element in the gay little party by noticing the absence of their hostess.
'Margot? No, I haven't seen her at all. I don't believe she's terribly well, said one of them, 'or perhaps she's lost somewhere in the house. Peter will know.
Paul found him seated alone in the garden after luncheon, smoking a large cigar, his big red hands folded before him, a soft hat tilted over his eyes, his big red face both defiant and disconsolate. He bore a preternatural resemblance to his caricatures in the evening papers, Paul thought.
'Hullo, young man! he said. 'Where's everybody?
'I think Peter's taking them on a tour round the house. It's much more elaborate than it looks from outside. Would you care to join them?
'No, thank you, not for me. I came here for a rest. These young people tire me. I have enough of the House during the week. Paul laughed politely. 'It's the devil of a session. You keen on politics at all?