He walked back to the sofa, and stood close beside her. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked her, quietly.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t.’

Ed leaned forward and kissed Della on the forehead, just below the line of her bright coppery hair. It started off as a chaste kiss; as a kiss of friendly affection and nothing more. But she put her arm around his neck, so that he couldn’t break away from her, and she raised her lips to him, very soft and very moist and very willing. He hesitated for a moment, and then he kissed her again, and this time it was a long, searching, devouring kiss, a kiss that meant I want you, however wrong it might be. A kiss of lust, and shared frustrations, and sheer excitement at making love to someone new.

‘Let’s take a bath,’ whispered Della. ‘I’ve been flying, and taking a look around your farm and I’ve been looking forward to a bath all afternoon.’

‘All right,’ said Ed. ‘A bath it is.’

They went upstairs together, Ed leading Della by the hand up the galleried staircase, until they came to the rococo bedroom. Della said, ‘Quite a place,’ as Ed showed her through to the bathroom.

‘Season designed it. She visited the Palace of Versailles once, on a trip to France, and I think it made a lasting impression.’

They went into the bathroom. The tub itself was midnight blue, and the wallpaper was an Osborne & Little design from England, blue peacocks strutting across a white background, like a Rorschach print of stately elegance. Ed ran the faucets, and sifted Swiss herb salts into the water. Della stood before the mirror, tidying her hair.

‘I’m surprised you took this farm on,’ said Della.

‘Oh?’ asked Ed. ‘Why?’

She turned away from the mirror. ‘You seem to like classy living as much as the next man. You’re not dumb. So why maroon yourself out here in Kansas, away from civilisation, and theatres, and anything that’s anything?’

Ed unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Land, and growing things, they’re as much a part of what makes this country worth living in as theatre and smart restaurants. And, in any case, I guess every actuary’s a dumb hick at heart.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, I hope you’re not too dumb and hickish to unzipper my gown for me.’

She turned around, lifted her hair up from the nape of her neck, and presented her back to him. He stood right behind her, watching both of their faces in the bathroom mirror. The steam from the hot water was already misting the edges of the glass so that it looked like an old and romantic photograph.