‘Very generous.’ He was laughing at her. She’d done the wrong thing. She sat down and took a gulp; the liquid flared its way down her throat and into her gut. She felt a surge of welcome energy. He sat next to her on the sofa at a proper distance, leaving room for someone else to sit between them, not that there was anyone.

It was strange. She had longed to be alone with him, and now here he was in her house and she realised instantly that being alone with him was not enough. What she wanted from him was impossible, even more impossible than what she had wanted from Nathaniel, because she was married now, and despite the accepted fashion of the era in certain echelons of society, she did not see marriage as a way to facilitate love affairs. She doubted he would either. A man of principles. How could she consider it?

A peculiar and real constraint rose up between them. It was as new as it was unwelcome. All at once she wished he would go. Drink his whisky and leave. She found his presence overwhelming. He took her breath away. She regretted mentioning supper on the invitation because she would have to feed him now, and that would prolong the agony. What had she been thinking? That they could be friends? Ridiculous. That was not what she wanted. She’d thrown the offer out without properly considering it, but then she’d never have managed to ask him at all if she had thought it through.

They sat in a spiky silence. She watched his Adam’s apple shift as he swallowed. He’d shaved.

She was grateful when he said, ‘I’ve checked all the boundaries now. Most of them are sound enough. There’s a section of wall, far south-east of the farm, that could do with repointing before winter.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. Should I get on with it?’

‘Yes. If you think so.’

‘Don’t want it getting worse.’

‘No.’

‘It’s not more than a hundred yards.’

‘Good.’

‘Shouldn’t take long.’

‘No.’

They fell silent again. He swirled his whisky around in the glass; the tawny amber liquid caught the last of the evening sunlight drifting through the open window.

‘How’s the writing going?’ she asked suddenly.

‘I want to write novels,’ he blurted.

‘Sorry?’

‘I like plays, but I think the novel is the greatest form of art. For me. I want to write a novel.’

‘Then why don’t you?’

‘Oh, many reasons,’ he looked pained, then he shrugged, ‘One of which is that I’d starve.’

‘I see.’ Another pause. ‘How is your mother?’ It was not the question she wanted to ask.

He looked amused. ‘Just as well as she was yesterday.’

‘I ought really to have extended the invitation to her too.’ That had never been her intention. She loved Enid, but this was separate. She was being artful because she had to know. She probed. ‘I hope she wasn’t offended.’

‘No, she can’t be, as I didn’t mention where I was spending the night. The evening.’ He corrected himself. It was almost too awful, but now she knew: he too had been selective, secretive.