‘You’re a secretary, not just a typist,’ Elizabeth corrected her. ‘And a very good one, I’m sure.’ She glanced anxiously at me. ‘Do you think she should be going back? You’re a nurse – what’s your opinion? Of course we’d be much happier if she’d throw in the towel and stay at home.’

Olivia stared at me with unmistakable appeal. There was a desperate look in her eyes.

‘I’m sure Olivia knows whether she feels well enough,’ I said carefully.

I stayed talking with them for a time, and it was polite if not relaxed. I had hoped for a few words with Olivia alone, but when I stood up ready to leave, Alec followed us out into the hall.

‘D’you like these?’ he asked, guiding me by the elbow to the wall opposite the stairs, almost as if anxious to delay me. ‘Bought them a few weeks ago.’

He was looking up at a set of five prints. I moved closer and stared at them carefully. They were all black and white engravings of the sort you might have come across in an old half-crown gift book. One showed a couple walking through woodland, she with the hem of her high-necked dress brushing the grass, the strings of her bonnet between her fingers; a young man, casually dressed, was leaning protectively towards her, one arm round her shoulders. Underneath, the caption read Shall we fix the wedding day?.

Some were scenes of Victorian families with rosy-cheeked children at the fireside: A romp with the children and Love is a mighty power. There was one slightly bigger than the other four which he had arranged in the middle. It showed a bearded man with an austere expression standing in a dark street lit only by a dim gas lamp. In the background a church spire was just visible. Kneeling at his feet was a young girl, her long hair over her shoulders and her hands outstretched to him, begging for assistance or for money, it was not clear. Much more apparent was the expression of desperation on her face. Underneath the title read, The Supplicant.

‘Marvellous, aren’t they?’ Alec said softly. He pointed at The Supplicant. ‘Especially that one. Don’t you agree?’

He was clearly moved by the pictures. There was even a slight break in his voice as he spoke. I turned to look at him carefully. We were standing close together and I couldn’t fail to notice the magnetism of the man. I realized suddenly how exhausted he looked, the dark patches under his eyes. He adored Olivia. Her illness had evidently taken a lot from him.

I could find nothing honestly polite to say about the pictures, but he didn’t seem to expect a reply. I actually saw tears in his eyes as he stood staring at the engravings. For a second I found myself moved, an instinct to comfort welling in me. Then I wondered if this was not a theatrical ploy, the kind of thing he used to approach other women, luring them to pity.