Over the heads of the undergraduates at their long tables, the roof arched away into dimness, the magnificent hammer beams only just visible. There were glimmers of gold in the dark, from the ornamented bosses and shields. Beneath the elegant tracery of the Gothic windows set high in the walls, the double row of portraits of past Masters in their gold frames stretched back into the sixteenth century. Under so many calm pairs of eyes even the present generation of irreverent diners seemed quieter and more sober in their gowns. The arch of the roof and the solid stone walls muffled the clamour of talk to a low murmur.

Chloe’s gaze shifted to the table in front of her, a massive slab of black oak polished like a mirror. It was heavy with thickets of glasses, silverware and crested china. Behind her, white-coated College servants were preparing to serve the first course. She glanced sideways and met Stephen’s eyes.

‘Sure you wouldn’t rather just have an egg?’ He was gently mocking the magnificence for her, and a quick smile flashed between them. Then Chloe inclined her head to listen respectfully to the Master. He had seemed very old and forbidding, an expert in classical antiquities, but now Chloe saw that his faded eyes were quick with interest.

‘So, Miss Campbell, you must tell us something about advertising.’

In other words, Chloe thought, here you are … so entertain us. Deliberately she shook out her heavy linen napkin and began to talk.

The conversation was measured and highly polished – like a rare art-form, she told herself. Over the savoury soufflé and the rare roast lamb, Chloe’s opinion was sought on Piero della Francesca, co-education, and a Snowdon photograph of the Master that had just appeared in one of the colour supplements. Everything she said was listened to as gravely as if she were a great authority.

Beside her, Stephen seemed just as courteously formal, but when the hawk-faced linguist opposite Chloe said, ‘We are so fortunate in having Dr Spurring, who brings such interesting people to enliven our High Table,’ he breathed in her ear, ‘He means women. The old bastard’s notoriously jealous. And watch he doesn’t pinch your bottom when we get upstairs.’

Chloe stared hard at her plate to stifle the laughter. She was impressed in spite of her worldliness by the ancient Hall and the civilised brilliance of the talk, and it gave the experience an extra little edge to have Stephen close to her, mildly poking fun at it.

The food came and went, unambitious but good. It was the wines that were remarkable. Stephen kept signalling for her glass to be refilled with the fragrant claret that accompanied the lamb. Leo Dawnay had taught Chloe what she knew about wine, and she remembered him saying that the finest wines he had ever tasted came from the cellars of Oxford Colleges.