The footman left her. She would reappear in her own time at Nunspardon and change for dinner at nine o’clock. The footman would return and collect her impedimenta. She fixed her spectacles on her nose, directed at her subject the sort of glance Nurse Kettle often bestowed on a recalcitrant patient, and set to work, massive and purposeful before her easel.

It was at six-thirty that she established herself there, in the meadow on the left bank of the Chyne not far below Bottom Bridge.

At seven, Mr Danberry-Phinn, having assembled his paraphernalia for fishing, set off down Watt’s Hill. He did not continue to Bottom Bridge but turned left, and made for the upper reaches of the Chyne.

At seven, Mark Lacklander, having looked in on a patient in the village, set off on foot along Watt’s Lane. He carried his case of instruments, as he wished to lance the abscess of the gardener’s child at Hammer, and his racket and shoes as he proposed to play tennis with Rose Cartarette. He also hoped to have an extremely serious talk with her father.

At seven, Nurse Kettle, having delivered Lady Lacklander’s note at Hammer, turned in at Commander Syce’s drive and free-wheeled to his front door.

At seven, Sir George Lacklander, finding himself favourably situated in a sheltered position behind a group of trees, embraced Mrs Cartarette with determination, fervour and an ulterior motive.

It was at this hour that the hopes, passions and fears that had slowly mounted in intensity since the death of Sir Harold Lacklander began to gather an emotional momentum and slide towards each other like so many downhill streams, influenced in their courses by accidents and detail, but destined for a common and profound agitation.

At Hammer, Rose and her father sat in his study and gazed at each other in dismay.

‘When did Mark tell you?’ Colonel Cartarette asked.

‘On that same night … after you came in and – and found us. He went to Nunspardon and his father told him and then he came back here and told me. Of course,’ Rose said, looking at her father with eyes as blue as periwinkles behind their black lashes, ‘of course it wouldn’t have been any good for Mark to pretend nothing had happened. It’s quite extraordinary how each of us seems to know exactly what the other one’s thinking.’

The Colonel leant his head on his hand and half-smiled at this expression of what he regarded as one of the major fallacies of love. ‘My poor darling,’ he murmured.

‘Daddy, you do understand, don’t you, that theoretically Mark is absolutely on your side? Because – well, because the facts of any case always should be demonstrated. I mean that’s the scientific point of view.’

The Colonel’s half-smile twisted, but he said nothing.

‘And I agree too, absolutely,’ Rose said, ‘other things being equal.’

‘Ah!’ said the Colonel.