“No, indeed, ma’am,” murmured Sir Walter.

“Instead,” continued Mrs Wintertowne, “she placed all her faith in the magician, Dreamditch. He had not an ounce of magic in him and was consequently obliged to invent some. He made rules for my brother, my sister and me, which, he assured my stepmother, would keep us safe. We wore purple ribbons tied tightly round our chests. In our room six places were laid at the table, one for each of us and one for each of the spirits which Dreamditch said looked after us. He told us their names. What do you suppose they were, Sir Walter?”

“I have not the least idea in the world, ma’am.”

Mrs Wintertowne laughed. “Meadowlace, Robin Summerfly and Buttercup. My brother, Sir Walter, who resembled myself in independence of spirit, would often say in my stepmother’s hearing, ‘Damn Meadowlace! Damn Robin Summerfly! Damn Buttercup!’ and she, poor silly woman, would plead very piteously with him to stop. They did us no good those fairy spirits. My sister became ill. Often I went to her room and found Dreamditch there, stroking her pale cheeks and unresisting hand with his long yellow unclean fingernails. He was almost weeping, the fool. He would have saved her if he could. He made spells, but she died. A beautiful child, Sir Walter. For years I hated my stepmother’s magician. For years I thought him a wicked man, but in the end, Sir Walter, I knew him to be nothing but a sad and pitiful fool.”

Sir Walter turned in his chair. “Miss Wintertowne!” he said. “You spoke – but I did not hear what it was you said.”

“Emma! What is it?” cried Mrs Wintertowne.

There was a soft sigh from the sopha. Then a quiet, clear voice said, “I said that you were quite wrong, Mama.”

“Am I, my love?” Mrs Wintertowne, whose character was so forceful and whose opinions were handed down to people in the manner of Moses distributing the commandments, did not appear in the least offended when her daughter contradicted her. Indeed she seemed almost pleased about it.

“Of course,” said Miss Wintertowne, “we must have magicians. Who else can interpret England’s history to us and in particular her northern history, her black northern King? Our common historians cannot.” There was silence for a moment. “I am fond of history,” she said.

“I did not know that,” said Sir Walter.

“Ah, Sir Walter!” cried Mrs Wintertowne. “Dear Emma does not waste her energies upon novels like other young women. Her reading has been extensive; she knows more of biography and poetry than any young woman I know.”

“Yet I hope,” said Sir Walter eagerly, leaning over the back of his chair to speak to his betrothed, “that you like novels as well, and then, you know, we could read to each other. What is your opinion of Mrs Radcliffe? Of Madame d’Arblay?”

But what Miss Wintertowne thought of these distinguished ladies Sir Walter did not discover for she was seized by a second fit of coughing which obliged her to struggle – with an appearance of great effort – into a sitting position. He waited some moments for an answer, but when her coughing had subsided she lay back on the sopha as before, with looks of pain and exhaustion, and closed her eyes.