‘I would prefer that you were here, I won’t deny that, and of course so would your mama, but we’d never seek to frustrate your wishes, Luke. Every man must have a vision to follow or he wilts and dies. What exactly would you do?’

‘You’ll think me foolish, you’ll laugh at the very idea.’ Luke shook his head and blew out his feeling of desolation in one deep shaft of breath. He could not bear the thought of his one burning desire being ridiculed, seen as a pathetic secret.

‘I might, but that should not be your main consideration.’

Luke chewed this over. His father understood him completely, he was prepared to listen fully and sympathetically. He’d throw his passion back in his face, of course, but perhaps he’d go away and think about it, even come round to the idea in time.

Leaning forward, a spark of energy igniting in his dark eyes, Luke started hesitantly but grew ever more enthusiastic. In the end, it was as if he was on fire. ‘While in London the only thing I really enjoyed was the theatre. I loved the drama, the atmosphere, the costumes, the faces of the audience and their reaction. I even loved it when the productions were awful and abuse was hurled at the players. I found I could lose myself in the themes behind the plays. I felt alive somehow. I’d go back to my lodgings and remember everything I’d seen and heard and somehow feel elated. Jack enjoyed them too. We’d talk for hours about them. I wish they had theatres and playhouses on such a scale in Cornwall.’

‘You’re saying you want to be an actor, Luke?’ Oliver kept his face straight. He didn’t want his son and heir to follow this course, but thinking of his despair, how could he not give his blessing?

‘No, no.’ For the first time in ages Luke laughed with true humour. ‘I want to write plays, good ones, tragedies and comedies and fantasies and love stories, stories that people will enjoy and remember all their lives. I want to entertain people, make an impact on their lives. After watching a play I used to restructure the plots and scenes in my head, knowing I could do better than just about anything I’d seen. I’d even started to write a couple but left them behind, thinking…’

The old melancholy regained its grip. Feeling stupid, and even betrayed, that he had share his deepest yearning, he gazed down at the Turkish rug beneath his feet.