‘She was a sort of advance-agent for calamities. To know her was to know the worst. Fortunately for the gaiety of the age she lived in, no one took her very seriously. Still, it must have been fairly galling to have her turning up after every catastrophe with a conscious air of “perhaps another time you’ll believe what I say.” ’

‘I should have wanted to kill her.’

‘As Clytemnestra I believe you gratify that very natural wish.’

‘Then it has a happy ending, in spite of it being a tragedy?’

‘Well, hardly,’ said Clovis; ‘you see, the satisfaction of putting a violent end to Cassandra must have been considerably damped by the fact that she had foretold what was going to happen to her. She probably dies with an intensely irritating “what-did-I-tell-you” smile on her lips. By the way, of course all the killing will be done in the Sumurun manner.’

‘Please explain again,’ said the Baroness., taking out a notebook and pencil.

‘Little and often, you know, instead of one sweeping blow. You see, you are at your own home, so there’s no need to hurry over the murdering as though it were some disagreeable but necessary duty.’

‘And what sort of end do I have? I mean, what curtain do I get?’

‘I suppose you rush into your lover’s arms. That is where one of the flying leaps will come in.’

The getting-up and rehearsing of the play seemed likely to cause, in a restricted area, nearly as much heart-burning and ill-feeling as the election petition. Clovis, as adapter and stage-manager, insisted, as far as he was able, on the charioteer being quite the most prominent character in the play, and his panther-skin tunic caused almost as much trouble and discussion as Clytemnestra’s spasmodic succession of lovers, who broke down on probation with alarming uniformity. When the cast was at length fixed beyond hope of reprieve matters went scarcely more smoothly. Clovis and the Baroness rather overdid the Sumurun manner, while the rest of the company could hardly be said to attempt it at all. As for Cassandra, who was expected to improvise her own prophecies, she appeared to be as incapable of taking flying leaps into futurity as of executing more than a severely plantigrade walk across the stage.

‘Woe! Trojans, woe to Troy!’ was the most inspired remark she could produce after several hours of conscientious study of all the available authorities.

‘It’s no earthly use foretelling the fall of Troy,’ expostulated Clovis, ‘because Troy has fallen before the action of the play begins. And you mustn’t say too much about your own impending doom either, because that will give things away too much to the audience.’

After several minutes of painful brain-searching, Cassandra smiled reassuringly.

‘I know. I’ll predict a long and happy reign for George the Fifth.’

‘My dear girl,’ protested Clovis, ‘have you reflected that Cassandra specialised in foretelling calamities?’

There was another prolonged pause and another triumphant issue.

‘I know. I’ll foretell a most disastrous season for the foxhounds.’

‘On no account,’ entreated Clovis, ‘do remember that all Cassandra’s predictions came true. The M.F.H. and the Hunt Secretary are both awfully superstitious, and they are both going to be present.’

Cassandra retreated hastily to her bedroom to bathe her eyes before appearing at tea.