‘That’s quite something, you know, to a Jewish boy like me. My family tree goes back no further than my great-grandfather. He was called Hartstein, and he arrived in New York with no more than the clothes he stood in. He scraped a kind of living for his wife and kids by doing piecework in the garment trade. The business he slaved for happened to have a sideline in theatrical costuming. My grandfather had a flair for that, took it over at the age of twenty, and ended up a celebrated costumier. And my father – well, my old man has a flair for everything. Greg Hart owns five Broadway theatres now, and a string more across the country.’

‘I think that’s more impressive than just being born a Mortimore,’ Helen told him gently.

Tom smiled at her in response, and she saw that although his face was stern and his mouth ungiving, there was real kindness behind his dark, hooded eyes.

‘Perhaps.’

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you really doing in Oxford, if you’ve got all that waiting for you in America?’

Tom picked up a fragment of bread from the tablecloth and rolled it between his fingers into a grey, doughy ball.

‘I’m in disgrace, as it happens. Serving out a year’s exile in the guise of doing my apprenticeship in the British theatre. By the time I get back, my old man reckons all the fuss will be forgotten.’

Helen stared at him, intrigued. She had forgotten herself enough not to worry about being tactful. ‘What fuss?’

‘D’you really want to know?’

‘Of course. What could be bad enough to deserve being banished from home for a whole year?’

Tom laughed shortly. ‘It’s not so bad. I miss New York, that’s all. Do you remember that production of The Tempest that was so successful in the West End last year? With Sir Edward Groves and Maria Vaughn?’

Helen nodded, dimly recollecting having read about it.

‘My father brought the production over for his summer season. With the original cast, starring the theatrical knight and his new wife Miss Vaughn.’

Helen remembered that, too.