He continued searching, frowning, intrigued … interpreting things, explaining things. We were only a foot or so apart. My eyes followed the irresistible line of his jaw. A tiny shaving cut on his cheek. I was fascinated by his ear. And the way his hair curled. And the tiny scratches on the surface of his glasses. And when he lifted the coat I gazed at his hands and his fingers which were so lean and so incredibly delicate and sensitive …

‘You keep tucking your hair behind your ear, Miss Hahn,’ Mr Huff observed, dryly.

‘Sorry?’ I jerked back to attention.

‘Your hair, Miss Hahn. You keep tucking it behind your …’

He impersonated the gesture. ‘… but there’s no hair there, Miss Hahn.’

‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed. Was he … was he actually moving closer? Leaning in closer?

He lifted up a hand towards the side of my face. And as he did so the crutch under his armpit was dislodged and began to fall. I flinched. I just flinched, automatically, as it clattered to the floor. Mr Huff frowned.

‘I don’t know why you keep …’ he muttered, irritated, his hand still lifted, still suspended. ‘Why do you keep …?’

‘It’s just a silly habit,’ I muttered.

He started. For some, strange reason he started. Then he dropped his hand and shifted back slightly.

‘What a terrible hair-clip!’ he snapped. ‘What on earth possessed you to put that ridiculous thing in your hair, Miss Hahn?’

‘What business is it of yours what I put in my hair?’ I responded, bending down to retrieve the fallen crutch.

Mr Huff started again. He started. For a second time.

‘Because you look ridiculous!’ he muttered. ‘It’s all wrong! It just isn’t you, Miss Hahn. It’s too… It’s too feminine. It’s too fussy. Pearls and silver filigree! It’s ridiculous … it’s like …’ – he pondered for a moment – ‘like applying lipstick to a giant sea cow or …’ – he frowned, struggling to find a suitable example – ‘sticking a big, pink bow on a … a giraffe! It’s all wrong, Miss Hahn. It’s ridiculous. You look so much better with … without …’

‘Hello? Hello? Is anybody …?’

Someone was calling.

Neither of us moved.

‘Sorry.’ He frowned. ‘What I meant to say was that it’s like …’

‘Hello?’

It was Mrs Sage Meadows. Of course.

‘… like … like gilding the lily … I didn’t …’

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hum. ‘I didn’t intend for it to sound so …’

‘I heard about your awful mishap, Mr Huff’ – Mrs Meadows swanned into the room – ‘and I brought you a home-made … Oh!’

She froze in her tracks. Mr Huff and I sprang guiltily apart.

I turned.

A cake.

Well just look at that!

A cake.

She’d brought him a home-made cake.

Lucky old Mr Huff.

I’d hazard a wild guess at … at chocolate. Or mocha. Or coffee and walnut.