Louisa laughed. ‘Oh, but I do go for them, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Anyway, I certainly think he’ll add to the fun of our week! I’m dying to know more about him because I think something must have happened to him since I met him a few years ago. I really, really like him.’

Marnie thought it extraordinary that Louisa was prepared to disclose her liking so openly on such short acquaintance. She could not in a million years envisage herself making such a statement about her hopes and desires to anyone. Louisa might or might not be a gambler, she thought – but she certainly wasn’t a poker player.

They had reached a small stone bridge across the burn. ‘If we go over to the other side,’ said Louisa, ‘we could sit against that rock – out of the wind but in the sun. You can see for miles up here, can’t you? Keep your eyes open for an eagle.’

‘Oh, I would so love to see one,’ said Marnie. ‘The old lady in the West Indies used to tell me about golden eagles – and otters and deer and seals – in her Scottish childhood. So . . . talking about birds, tell me more about your owl.’

‘Okay. God, but I’m really hot after steaming up the hill like that! Must be out of training.’ Louisa pulled her jersey off and they both flopped on to the mossy grass, which was surprisingly dry, and watched the clouds drifting across the brilliant blue sky. There was no sign of an eagle, but a buzzard wheeled and mewed overhead and curlews bubbled their spring calls like the noise of the peaty water purling over the rocks. Louisa told Marnie about her beloved owl, Mr Brown: how tame he was; what a character; how funny; how beautiful.

‘When you see him from a distance you think he’s just plain brown, rather a dull colour,’ she said, ‘but when you have him on your arm you marvel at the variety of shading in his tawny feathers; their delicacy; the way they overlap. People talk about “wise owls”, but actually, I hate to tell you, they’re among the least intelligent birds – real thickos. Sometimes Mr Brown forgets he’s a bird and fancies he’s a dog and tries to waddle after me with the rolling gate of a drunken sailor which is terribly endearing – providing he gets something tasty like a dead chick afterwards!’

‘Does he love you too? Do you feel you have a two-way relationship?’