She holds my gaze for a long moment, refusing to answer my question, and at last reaches for the remains of her coffee. As she sips it, her hand is shaking again and a little spills on the table. Then I hear the turn of a key in the front door, and moments later Evelyn has joined us in the kitchen. She’s staring at the plate of croissants, half-finished. Then she sees the box of buttons, still open on the table.

‘Is this a private party?’ she asks. ‘Or is anyone welcome?’

That same afternoon, with Christianne back next door, Evelyn insists on taking me for a walk. I’ve yet to share the news about her neighbours’ adventures but she’s aware that I’ve never taken a proper look at Budleigh and she thinks that omission needs rectifying.

After a grey morning, the weather has cheered up and we walk arm in arm down the hill towards the heart of the little town. Exmouth, where I spent a great deal of the summer, is barely five miles away, but this is another world. People are older, richer, better turned out, and their tastes are reflected in the shops along the main street that leads from the top of the town to the seafront: cafes with every table taken, upmarket vintners, a butcher’s window brimming with choice cuts of lamb and venison, even a decent art gallery.

We pause in the sunshine outside an estate agent. A particular property catches Evelyn’s eye. It has five bedrooms, sea views, a double garage, and half an acre of carefully landscaped garden. The neighbouring house, she says, is even grander and happens to belong to someone she knows.

‘Bill Penny,’ she says. ‘Ex-diplomat. Used to head the embassy in Berlin. Get him off the croquet lawn and you won’t meet a nicer man.’

I nod, but say nothing. The pile next door to Bill Penny’s is on sale for £1,250,000 and I can’t help thinking about Malo’s bid to buy a modest perch in Ranelagh Gardens.

‘These places are cheap,’ I murmur, ‘compared to prices at home.’

‘Home? Home, my lovely, is here.’

I glance down at her and grin, and tell her she’s fallen on her feet, and then I slip my arm through hers, and we set off again. Evelyn, I’ve remembered, is a West Country girl by birth, brought up in a tiny village on the edge of Dartmoor, and her smile – totally unforced – tells me this seemly little town suits her perfectly.