Lindsay thought: I could go over to him and join him. I could put Markov’s advice into practice right now. I could ask him about buttresses and pillars. I could look at that famous Norman doorway with him. We could look at saints and angels together—and he could explain their symbolism, no doubt. But she turned away. She did not have the heart for the deception, and she could not bear the spectacle of Rowland, being kind.

None of this is going to work, she thought miserably; none of it. She waited until Rowland McGuire had disappeared back into the church—why? To examine its architecture? To pray?—and then she returned to the path. She picked some cow parsley—Queen Anne’s lace, Charlotte called it, a much prettier name—as she walked. She went down the old, worn steps, out through the lych-gate, and into the lane.

In the distance, some guests, the last stragglers, had reached the entrance to Max’s driveway. She saw the floaty pastels of the women’s dresses, heard a shout, then laughter from the men. Rowland McGuire said: “You cried.”

She turned around to find him at her shoulder, frowning into the sun, very nearly a foot taller than she was, impossibly handsome, unreadable, maybe amused, maybe sad.

“Yes, I did,” she replied a little irritably, walking on, Rowland keeping pace with her. “I’m sentimental. I like babies…”

“I can see that.”

“I also like puppies. Kittens. Foals. Lambs. The last time my cat had a litter—there were eight kittens—I cried all morning. It isn’t a virtue. I do know that. No one else cried back there.”

“Charlotte did.”

“Charlotte has cause.”

They walked on a short distance in silence. Lindsay tried to think of memorable remarks, and failed. For the first hundred yards she felt self-conscious and tongue-tied, an intellectual pygmy; for the second hundred yards she felt happy—he had chosen to walk with her, after all. By the time they reached Max’s drive—that cursed optimism of hers—full-blown elation had taken hold. He was there, she thought, drinking in the sunshine, and the air, and the scent of new-mown grass.

“I like your dress,” Rowland said into the silence, in somewhat cautious tones.

Lindsay tripped; she turned to stare at him.

“What did you say?”

“Your dress. It’s—I can’t stand fussy dresses. I like that. It’s…” He searched around for an adjective.

Lindsay looked down at her dress, cream linen, midcalf, high-necked, short-sleeved. She was aware that it looked good—well, quite good—against her tan.

“Plain?” she offered, smiling. “Modest? Elegant? Restrained? Matronly? Dull? Cream?”

“Most certainly not matronly. It suits you. It makes you look…”

Apparently the appropriate adjective failed him again. Lindsay could see how hard he was trying, and she felt a rush of pure affection for him. With a naturalness which surprised her, she took his arm.

“Come on, Rowland. I can see you find compliments difficult. It doesn’t matter. Let’s get some wine. There’s champagne, and a wonderful cake. It has three tiers, and a stork with a baby in a bundle in its beak…”