When there was a knock at the drawing-room door and the maid put her head round it, he looked up in surprise. ‘There’s a Mrs Gilbert here, sir.’

Mrs Gilbert? He had no idea who that was. ‘Have you told her my sister and husband are out at present?’

‘It wasn’t the mistress and master she wanted to see, sir. She asked for you.’ The maid hesitated and then said, ‘She came in a taxi, sir, and asked it to wait, so . . .’

‘Yes, yes, bring her in.’ Edward stood up, racking his brains. He’d heard the name before but he couldn’t think where.

When Olive walked into the room and saw the man whom Ruby loved, she could instantly see what the attraction was, even before he came forward and said courteously, ‘Mrs Gilbert, you must forgive me, I’ve been ill and my memory isn’t what it was . . .’

‘We haven’t met, Mr Forsythe.’

‘No? Well, please sit down. Can I get you coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I have a cab waiting so I won’t be long.’ Having sat, Olive found that the words she had rehearsed for some time had completely gone. She stared into the handsome face in front of her, and after a moment, said, ‘I’m Ruby’s sister, Olive.’

Gilbert. Of course.

‘And before I say anything more, I must tell you that Ruby has no idea I am here, Mr Forsythe. I’ve left the shop in the care of my assistants and—’ Olive stopped abruptly. He wouldn’t care about the shop, for goodness’ sake.

‘Mrs Gilbert—’

‘No, please listen, Mr Forsythe,’ she interrupted forcefully, finding her flow. ‘Let me say what I need to say and then I’ll leave. Ruby loves you. She always has and she never stopped, not even when you got engaged to that other girl in America. It broke her heart, that’s the truth of it, and she bitterly regretted sending you away as soon as you had gone but didn’t know how to put things right, and then it was too late. She’d already decided you being rich didn’t matter and she had made a terrible mistake—’

‘I’m not rich.’

‘Not now, I’m talking about when you were. Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter to her and it shouldn’t to you, not if you still love her. Do you? Do you love Ruby, Mr Forsythe?’

He stared into the face of Ruby’s sister and it came to him that although Olive Gilbert bore no resemblance whatsoever to the woman he loved, she certainly had Ruby’s directness. ‘I care for Ruby, yes,’ he said stiffly, feeling as though he had been run over by a human steamroller.

‘That wasn’t what I asked. Do you love her?’

‘I don’t think that is any concern of—’