Beryl brought his second letter down to me. It looked as if it had been steamed open and sealed up again but that was something I could never have proved even if I had cared. He was writing to ask if he could take me out to dinner the following week.

“I haven’t anything to wear,” I said to Beryl. “Would jeans do?”

“Are you asking me, love? I was never took out for dinner in me life. I’ll tell you what, you can have a lend of my girl’s long black skirt, she’s about your size. She says forget about the little black dress, it’s a long black skirt’ll take you anywhere so long as you put something bright on the top.” This was a version of Beryl’s own habitual gear, on that particular day black leggings and a jumper in the shade Silver called “hairdresser pink.” “And talking of long skirts,” she said, “I’ve found out what the Indian woman’s name is. Nasreen. Well, I’ve heard of Irene and Doreen but I ask you, Nasreen?”

“What about the people with the futons on the floor?” I said. “And what’s happening to the Silvermans?”

“Well, dear, they’ve got so many houseplants it’s like a rain forest in there. I half expect to see a tiger come prowling out, but they haven’t got no pets.”

“The Silvermans?”

“No, love, not them. The other lot. Mr. Silverman and Mrs., they’ve only been up to London once since Christmas. Funny having Christmas in London when you’ve got a country place, isn’t it? Still, it takes all sorts. They was all up here then, the girl and what she calls her partner and the one called Julian and the boy. Silver, I mean. He had to give his pals the go-by for the festive season. It’s no good asking me any more because I’ve told you all I know.”

Beryl brought the black skirt and I wore it when Guy took me to dinner at the first really good restaurant I had ever eaten in, a place in Knightsbridge. I asked him something that had hardly been mentioned between us before. When he came up the field and saw us on the pylon, heard me screaming and came running, where had he been before, and why had he once said if only he had been ten minutes earlier, as he might easily have been?

He looked across the table at me in silence, making a rueful face. I thought it was a nice face, squarish, with good firm features, a strong jaw, a wide forehead, a straight nose. His eyes were dark brown, an eye color I’ve never found attractive, but his were clear and honest. He’d raised his eyebrows and half-smiled.

“Are you really sure you want to know?”

“Why?” I asked. “Is it something awful?”