‘You will not find your father greatly changed,’ remarked Lady Moping, as the car turned into the gates
of the County Asylum.
‘Will he be wearing a uniform ?’ asked Angela,
“No, dear, of course not. He is receiving the very best attention.’
It was Angela’s first visit and it was being made at her own suggestion.
Ten years had passed since the showery day in late summer when Lord Moping had been taken away; a
day of confused but bitter memories for her; the day of Lady Moping’s annual garden party, always
bitter, confused that day by the caprice of the weather which, remaining clear and brilliant with promise
until the arrival of the first guests, had suddenly blackened into a squall. There had been a scuttle for
cover; the marquee had capsized; a frantic carrying of cushions and chairs; a table-cloth lofted to the
boughs of the monkey-puzzler, fluttering in the rain; a bright period and the cautious emergence of
guests on to the soggy lawns; another squall; another twenty minutes of sunshine. It had been an
abominable afternoon, culminating at about six o’clock in her father’s attempted suicide.
Lord Moping habitually threatened suicide on the occasion of the garden party; that year he had been
found black in the face, hanging by his braces in the orangery; some neighbours, who were sheltering
there from the rain, set him on his feet again, and before dinner a van had called for him. Since then
Lady Moping had paid seasonal calls at the asylum and returned in time for tea, rather reticent of her
experience