Oliver took her hand again and pulled her into a run. ‘Wonderful,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Pansy’ll be there, of course, and Hart. You can make up the foursome.’

Helen almost stumbled and fell. She wished that the muddy lane would open up and swallow her.

How stupid. How absurd of her to have hoped for anything else.

Of course there was no point in hoping. Oliver wouldn’t come back to her. She had amused him for a little while, perhaps just because she was naive and ignorant of his world. And now that was over, and he was held by his fascination with Pansy. Helen was just part of the scenery for him, another figure to populate his crowded landscape. For a moment dislike overcame her, together with contempt for his self-preoccupation and complacency. And yet that wasn’t all of Oliver. He was much more complex than that.

Oliver ran faster and faster with Helen’s hand still caught firmly in his. Their heels rang on the metalled road and their breath clouded in the cold air. Helen felt a stab of pain in her chest and began to flag, but still Oliver drew her on.

Even caught up in her instant of dislike, her palm was glued to his. His electricity had never failed to arouse her, and she couldn’t have let go his hand to save her life.

Then they were at the stone gateposts and under the arch of oak trees. As soon as Oliver saw the house he stopped, with Helen gasping beside him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Come on. I’d better go in and make myself agreeable.’

He was just Oliver again, as full of faults as she had always suspected, and she still loved him because something within her always would. But loving him would no longer obliterate everything. Sometime, no matter how far off it was, she would belong to herself again.

Those of the party who remained were sitting around the fire in the drawing room. Teacups and newspapers were scattered comfortably between them.

Stephen, both hands moving expressively to make a point, was talking about the conflicts of love within the play.

Chloe sat a little apart, apparently engrossed in a newspaper.

Oliver went straight to Beatrice and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Sorry I was so rude,’ he said penitently. ‘Does it mean that you won’t ever ask me again?’

‘Of course not. It’s a pleasure to see you all. We’re always here, Stephen and I, and you must come whenever you like.’

Across the room, Chloe folded up her newspaper and put it down. Then she stretched, cat-like, and looked at her watch.

‘If you’re ready, Helen, I think I’d quite like to get back.’

It was the cue for the party to break up. People began saying their goodbyes.