Squeezed into the back of Erik’s open-topped car beside Adrienne and the long-suffering Alec, Jelly clasped her niece’s hand so hard that the little girl cried, ‘Ouch, Auntie Jeje!’ Jelly scolded herself: she should be grateful for a trip to a hotel at Studland Bay. She offered up a silent prayer, lest Erik’s obsession with speed should send them all to the spirit world to which he was so devoted.

Erik’s wife, Ebba, had stayed behind, spending a few days with their daughter, Margareta, and the latter’s French husband. Ebba’s health, Erik said, would make it difficult for her to enjoy a break that involved brisk walks over sand dunes. And she would probably not approve of Studland Bay’s naturist beach.

At the top of a long climb, the sea spread before them, Old Harry jutting up from the water like a snowman on blue satin. Erik stopped the car; Adila sprang out and made for the cliff edge, Adrienne and Caesar cantering behind. ‘Adri,’ shouted Alec, ‘be careful!’ All around rose the sweetness of incipient honey in the heather and the contented rumble of bees. ‘Oh, what air!’ Adila boomed.

‘Adi, they can hear you in Poole,’ Alec teased her.

‘There’s something of eternity and consolation about the sea,’ said Erik, who had started his career in the Swedish navy.

‘Didn’t you find it dull?’ Alec asked.

‘I read a lot of spiritual philosophy.’ Erik gave a grin. ‘Unless it was night in the crow’s nest, when you could only watch the stars and feel the swell of the ocean. You sense your own insignificance within that immensity.’

The hotel, in a hollow sheltered from the coastal winds, soon slid the newcomers into place. Adila disappeared into the bathroom for a while, as her stomach sometimes insisted she must, then took a nap. Adrienne and Caesar made for the bottom of the garden; a scattering of other guests smiled to see the little girl in lilac playing with her dog. Relaxing on the terrace, the baron offered Alec his finest tobacco.

‘I’m not supposed to smoke,’ Alec admitted, twirling his pipe in one hand. ‘My doctor says it’s bad for my lungs. But this smells amazing.’

‘First class,’ said Erik. ‘Riff cut, blended with whisky and made in Sweden. Come on, Alec, live a little. It’s tosh about tobacco damaging the lungs. On the contrary, it helps to aerate them and soothes away any possible infection.’