‘How well do you know this man?’ Hundchen is sniffing around my ankles.

‘Very well. We come here a lot. He’s a good friend.’

‘We?’

‘Andy and I. Bill’s a volunteer with the National Trust. He might not look the part but Andy says he’s great with mending fences and stiles. That’s where they met. That’s where it all began.’

‘Andy’s a volunteer as well?’

‘Yes.’ We’ve come to a halt outside a door at the end of the upstairs landing. This is a room, Christianne says, that has to be seen to be believed, and as she opens the door a foot or two and stands aside to let me take a look, I sense an almost proprietary sense of pride. But she’s right. The room is huge, washed in grey autumnal light. The windows offer a view out towards the coastal path, and I catch the gleam of the sea beyond. The furniture is French, and one of the armchairs looks original, possibly Louis XVI, but the real jewel is a chaise longue, perfectly angled to take advantage of the view. A glance at the fabric, wonderfully thick stripes of dark blue and grey, tells me the chaise has been recently upholstered, but the rightness of the proportions, the way the back swoops down to join the seat, oozes class. Thanks to my mum’s passion for provincial auctions, I happen to know a little about French antique furniture and I know that this chaise must have cost Sir William a fortune.

I gaze at it for a moment longer, wondering whether I might give it a try, if only to enjoy the view, when Christianne touches me lightly on the arm. She’s nodding at the double bed wedged against the back wall and I realize someone is curled beneath the embroidered counterpane.

‘Who’s that?’ I whisper.

‘Sylvester. Bill’s son. He flew over from New York last night. Took a cab from the airport this morning.’

‘Exeter?’

‘Heathrow.’

‘On the meter?’

‘Probably.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Exactly.’

We giggle together again, schoolgirls at the feast of someone else’s making, then I hear our host calling from below. Lunch is ready. Sir William will be glad to serve us.

We descend to the dining room. The dog is desperate for affection so I stoop to pick her up and give her a brief cuddle as we go back downstairs. The table is laid for four but I’m guessing that Sylvester is still asleep. At Sir William’s invitation, we sit down. Lunch is a selection of cold cuts with a crisp green salad, and late-season new potatoes. Our host has readied a bottle of Chablis and circles the head of the table to fill our glasses. The toast, when it comes, is simplicity itself.

‘To Arpeggio,’ he says. ‘And all the other treats you’ve given me.’