He nodded, placing his hands, with their big, square nails, flat on the table.

‘Are you very busy today?’ she said, handing him his tea.

‘Not too bad. Steady, you know.’ He smiled, and with a definite twinkle in his eye, added, ‘How’s the German order coming along?’

Margaret had told him about Caleb Turner’s struggle to make the dies representing Herr von Titz’s daughters. When she had begun the tale, Philip Tallis said, ‘Oh, yes, I can imagine Turner – “What’m I s’posed to do wi’ these then?” He imitated Caleb Turner’s lugubrious voice so accurately that Margaret was reduced to fits of laughter, despite feeling vaguely guilty.

‘Have you ever met Mrs Turner?’ she’d asked.

‘Oh, yes – she’s quite a cheerful body,’ he’d said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Enough for both of ’em, I think.’

She loved sitting and drinking tea with the two of them. Daisy dashed back and forth to the table, never still, taking sips from her cup and wheeling away to do other things. She was what made things easy. Once or twice, when she left the room for a few moments, the atmosphere between them had become fraught with a need to say something, and when neither of them quite knew what and could not meet each other’s eyes, it was a relief when Daisy came swinging back in again.

Once the tea was over and Philip Tallis was about to begin on Daisy’s bowl, there was an urgent hammering at the front door. Daisy looked up and rolled her eyes.

‘Oh, no!’ she said, slouching against the table with annoyance. ‘I can guess who that is. That’s Mr Carson.’

Philip Tallis rolled his eyes as well. ‘All right – go along and save Mrs Flett’s legs, will yer, Daisy?’

A moment later, Daisy opened the front door to be met with a roar of greeting which made Margaret’s eyes widen.

‘Ah! Miss Daisy Tallis! What a marvellous sight to greet me on such a dull afternoon! Is your pa about?’

Philip Tallis looked round at Margaret, seeming about to warn her as he got to his feet, but it was already too late.

‘Where is he? Ah – Tallis, you ridiculous old curmudgeon, you!’ The tall gentleman came in like a whirlwind in his sweeping coat, a black beret pulled to one side of his head over tousled dark hair and dashing moustache, waxed and pointing upwards at the ends. He brought gusts of cold air into the room. ‘Thought I’d pay you a call as you never seem to stir yourself to come and see us. How’s . . . Ah! A visitor! Whom do I have the pleasure . . . ?’ He yanked the beret from his head and gave a theatrical bow.