“Yes. Well. I was just leaving the office,” Max said. “And I ran into Rowland by chance. In the lobby. Then the idea came to me—on the spur of the moment. Why doesn’t Rowland join us, I thought? After all, he’s been working flat out. A weekend in the country, I thought. It could be just what Rowland needs. He could relax. He could…”

Max’s explanation died away. Lindsay’s eyes were fixed on him with a basilisk stare. Her lips were pursed, and two bright flags of color had appeared in her cheeks.

“How very providential,” she said. “How nice for everybody, Max.”

“Yes. Indeed yes.” Max averted his eyes. “And luckily, Rowland had no plans for this weekend. Well, he did have, of course, much in demand and all that, but he was able to cancel them.”

“And at such short notice too. I’d never realized how impulsive Rowland was. I’d have said he was a man who always planned things very carefully.”

At this, Genevieve Hunter looked up. Rowland thought she might have sensed the tension in the room—it would not have been difficult, it was even subduing the dogs. If so, it did not appear to affect her. She glanced at Max, then at Rowland, then leaned back against the cushions. She had the look of people on airplanes, Rowland thought, the look you saw on people’s faces when they were listening to music on headphones, following the intricacies of some melody inaudible to anyone else. What music, what tune? he thought. Then, recollecting himself, and realizing that someone had to salvage this moment, he stepped forward and spoke.

“Admit the truth, Max,” he began, and Max flinched. “There’s a woman at the back of this—and I made Max invite me because of her. Charlotte—I’ve missed you.” He kissed her cheek and put his arm around the place where her waist had formerly been. “I haven’t seen you in months, and I told Max I had to see you before the baby was born. You’re looking magnificent, has he told you that?”

“Fat,” said Charlotte, rosy with pleasure and relief. “Don’t try to be gallant. I look mountainous.”

“You look beautiful,” Rowland said, meaning it. “And what’s more, it’s definitely a girl this time. A daughter. A Miss Max.”

“You’re sure?” Charlotte laughed. “How can you tell?”

“Because you’re carrying the baby low. And according to my Irish grandmother, that’s always the sign of a girl.”

“What nonsense, Rowland. You don’t even remember your Irish grandmother.”

“Wait and see in two months.”

Rowland released Charlotte and looked around the room. He spied Danny, lurking shyly behind a chair. Rowland, sure the three-year-old could be relied upon to create a diversion, held out his arms to him. With a whoop of pleasure Danny hurtled forward, clamped himself to Rowland’s knees, and then whooped again as Rowland hoisted him aloft.

After that, as he had hoped, it was easy. The dogs came back to life, and barked; Charlotte began to fuss with the tea things; Max had to recall, at length, the tiresome new-age caravansary that had delayed them approaching the village, and the boys—hearing Rowland’s and their father’s voices—had to race back downstairs, their motive part affection and part avarice, for Rowland, a great favorite with them, never arrived without bringing gifts.