Daisy had her hair tied back austerely in a long bunch at the back, a black hat pulled down over her ears. From beneath its stiff brim, her eyes were looking out in their intent way.

‘Hello, Daisy,’ Aunt Hatt said kindly and Margaret smiled at her too.

‘Are you coming for your lesson?’ Daisy said to Margaret, in a voice so commanding that Aunt Hatt made a face as if to say, Well, this one seems to think she’s the boss!

‘Go on,’ Aunt Hatt said, as she had said every day that week. ‘There’s not much more for you to do here, Margaret. You might as well learn a few things while you’re here!’

‘Thanks, Auntie,’ Margaret said, laughing. But on the inside she was trembling with anticipation. Her heart soared. She knew she was doing Daisy a favour, giving the child some attention. But every day now, when Daisy showed her a few elements of silversmithing in between chatting to her – of which she also did a good deal – they were never alone together for very long. Philip Tallis always found a reason to call into the room. Daisy would be showing Margaret the right hammer to use to flatten a silver bangle, or to make tiny round wounds in the metal which then sparkled with light; or Margaret watched as Daisy moved her bowl slowly round and beat it into shape . . . And soon they would hear his footsteps along the passage.

Tea was often the pretext – a ritual almost as key in this household as in Aunt Hatt’s. Mrs Flett would bring in a tray with tea and bread and butter or a plain cake, and he would often linger in the room talking, even after the cups held only cool dregs . . .

‘I’ve finished the bowl!’ Daisy announced as they crashed in through the door of number twenty-four that afternoon. ‘Now Pa says all I need to do is fix it on to the stand and it’s done!’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Margaret said, infected as ever by the strength of the child’s enthusiasm. Was it right, she kept asking herself, to be so enthused by the material world? Daisy showed no signs of religious interest. Margaret had asked her once or twice whether she would like to attend the church at Carrs Lane with her on Sunday, but she was met with a look of blank incomprehension.

‘But Sunday morning’s the time when Pa and I go for our walk!’ she said. And Margaret saw that this Sunday habit was sacred to Daisy, the way fashioning things of beauty was sacred. And Margaret was pulled up short, confused by the thought that anything could substitute for church and still be of God . . . But what she saw between Philip Tallis and his daughter and between the two of them and their creations, was love. And what is that, she thought, if not part of that greater Love?