The little child reflected, thumb in her mouth. ‘My doll didn’t want to put on her outdoor coat. Her name’s Evangeline,’ she said.

‘And what did Evangeline want to do?’ William asked.

‘She just wants to sit on Mama’s lap and listen to a story,’ said the child.

‘Dolls can’t hear,’ said the older child at once. William suppressed the desire to enquire whether they were nonetheless capable of expressing their preferences.

‘Evangeline can,’ said the younger.

‘If you would like to fetch Evangeline I should be happy to tell her a story,’ said William. ‘And I should very much like to see your scrapbook, too. Perhaps we could make up a story from something in its pages, what do you say?’

Both children scampered to fetch their things. Mrs Lockwood turned to William.

‘You are too kind,’ she said. ‘I fear Molly and Kitty may never let you leave, if you indulge them so. Let me go down for some refreshment for you, at least.’

William was left alone to look about him. It was a very pleasant room, with three windows to the ground, furnished simply but with no absence of comfort. On one wall was a pencil drawing of Lockwood, as a younger man than he had been when William knew him. On either side of the fireplace were low cabinets of rosewood, inlaid with brass decoration; there was a highly polished brass fender and a set of fire tongs, shovel and bellows. The metals gleamed brightly in the morning sun. Three or four embroidered cushions of posies of flowers – pansies and dog-roses and small trailing violets – were finely done. He wondered if these were the work of Mrs Lockwood.

Presently that lady returned and her daughters too. The girls settled themselves to either side of William, while their mother took a low chair by the window. A slip of a maid brought in a tray, nicely laid with a threadwork cloth. Mrs Lockwood stood and took it from her and put the things out upon a small table. All her movements were performed with economy and neatness. There was a tall china pot with a squat little sugar-bowl to match and a plate of biscuits hardly bigger than florins. William had been brought up not to remark upon any detail of a repast, but these shortbreads struck him as so delicious that he could not forbear from saying so. Mrs Lockwood smiled.

‘The receipt came from my grandmother’s house,’ she said. ‘The flavour is from orange zest, made fine with a nutmeg grater.’