She saw that his cheeks were pink, as though he’d been running and there was an agitation in him which she had never seen before. He held up the parcel.

‘I bring you this,’ he said. ‘I bring it in hope.’

Clorinda took off her apron. The late afternoon, with its visit to Henrietta Street (a house in great need of a good cleaning, she thought) had already been peculiar enough and what she now longed to do was to lie down on her bed and go fast asleep. Instead, she fell back into one of the tea-room chairs and couldn’t stop a long sigh escaping from her throat.

‘Clorinda,’ said Florian, ‘Clorinda, Clorinda! I say your name in my dreams. But I want more than dreams. Here is my gift.’

He placed the parcel into Clorinda’s hands. It was wrapped in a strip of gauzy fabric and tied neatly with string.

‘Open. Open!’ said Florian. ‘It is for the one I love.’

This utterance brought to Clorinda’s face a look of severity, seldom seen since the opening of the tea rooms had brought her so much gladness. She looked down at the package and knew that, no matter what it contained, she didn’t want to unwrap it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I never accept gifts from gentlemen.’

Florian Bellenger smiled his seductive smile and said, ‘Do not say such a disappointing thing, Clorinda. I am not any gentleman. You know that. I am a spirit of the air! So open my gift. Allez! I am sure you will like—’

‘No,’ said Clorinda. ‘Please take it back.’

‘I know what you think – that I want something in return, n’est-ce pas? Something you may not wish to give – yet. But écoutez-moi bien, you and I, we are not ordinary. We are not bound in chains. We are not slaves to propriety, like those English snobs and prigs out there in the street. You … from your green island; me … from far away. We are quite free.’

‘About freedom, I am inclined to agree. We are free, if we have the courage to be so. But this also means that I am free to say no to you.’

Florian Bellenger now looked as downcast as a trapeze artist, whose face has taught itself to smile at perpetual danger, ever allows himself to look.

‘Clorinda,’ he said. ‘This is a gift of lace, Point de Bruxelles, from my home. I give to you something precious. For friendship. For the hope that you can love me. You sew the lace onto your bodice and I … so softly, like the fingers of a flower … I will unlace it, to reveal to me what I long to touch.’

Clorinda was tired enough on this day to wish to remain sitting in her chair, but she made herself stand up and hand the package back to Bellenger.

‘You are my friend,’ said Clorinda. ‘But you cannot be my lover. Now, you must go, Monsieur. I have much work to do.’