He entered the small, square hall, shutting the door behind him, and Violet led the way into the sitting room. He followed her, but to her surprise he did not put his arms round her as he did usually the moment they were alone together. Instead, he walked to the balcony and looked out at the sea.

She watched him, aware that while he had smiled in greeting his eyes were grave.

‘Is anything the matter’ she asked at length.

He turned then, making a little gesture that was half a shrug of the shoulders.

‘Not really.’

‘There is something nevertheless,’ Violet answered.

‘Nothing to make a fuss about,’ Robert said a little testily. ‘I have had a letter from my mother telling me that old Hathaway, the keeper, has died. I have known him since I was a little boy. He has been at Cheveron for fifty years and naturally we shall miss him.’

‘Naturally!’ Violet said a little faintly.

‘He used to take me shooting,’ Robert went on. ‘I remember I used to think he was very fussy about the way I carried my gun, that I must make absolutely sure I had unloaded it before I crossed a fence or jumped a ditch, but as I grew older, I realised how wise and sensible he was.’

Robert’s voice died away and he continued to look out to sea.

‘I am sorry, Robert,’ Violet said.

It seemed as if he did not hear her for a moment, and then he turned his head.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I was sorry.’

‘Yes, of course. Cheveron will seem strange without Hathaway. I would like to have been at his funeral, but of course that is impossible. He would have been buried yesterday.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Violet said.

Cheveron, always Cheveron! She could feel it there, grasping out towards Robert, holding him firmly, tenaciously, drawing him away from her, entwining itself around him with tentacles that she could never break.

She must have given a little sob, for suddenly Robert turned from the windows and walked into the room.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I must not let my feelings bore you. Would you like to go for a drive or visit the Casino?’

She thought that the politeness in his voice and the courtesy of his expression were harder to bear than if he had reproached her. Indeed she would rather he had cursed her for having enticed him to Monte Carlo when he might have been at Cheveron than that he should speak to her like this. But she knew this was not the moment for a scene, not the moment for reproaches of any sort.

‘Let us go to the Casino,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling that I might be lucky. I dreamt that I saw seven birds last night. They had long tails, they might have been pheasants.’