‘I thought I’d take a walk,’ she was saying, ‘but find I have come in the wrong heels.’

‘You could take your shoes off,’ said the second of the boys.

‘Yes,’ she mumbled, ‘I could take them off.’

For a moment they all stood staring at the offending pair of shoes, but she did not follow the boy’s advice, and they began to walk, shod and barefoot, all in somewhat stilted fashion, though moderately contented.

Until Mrs Mortlock caught sight of the man, rising above a ridge of rocks, to become by degrees the children’s father.

‘Here!’ he called, indolently rather than angrily. ‘What’ve you kids been up to? Your mother’s started worrying.’

It was, naturally, Doctor Flegg. Mrs Mortlock did not even feel flustered since her initial shock on discovering traces of him in his child. In her anonymity she even had power over this unknowing man, his youth’s body hardened, scored, and already grizzled, by participation.

He began squinting, shading his eyes, to protect them from the unexpected sight of the strange woman in her blinding dress.

‘We met,’ she explained, ‘the other side of the point. And strolled a little.’

As he came up she could see his tongue beginning to try the feel of words, preparatory to manoeuvring them over the obstacle of his lower lip.

Then Mrs Mortlock took aim.

‘It was a great surprise and pleasure for me, Barry Flegg.’

As she watched the mystification dissolving in his now unguarded eyes, she continued conscious of her own strength, no longer dependent on anonymity, rather on the image which, she knew from countless hotel looking-glasses, she must present. So she held herself erect, and smiled, out of the lipstick which she could tell was still in pretty good repair.

‘Anthea Scudamore!’ he said. ‘Waddayaknow, eh?’ And again in an expiring breath half amusement, half disbelief: ‘Anthea!’

His diffidence to believe in the incontrovertible reality of herself filled Mrs Mortlock with ironic pleasure. If she had been staying longer she would have cashed a cheque to buy presents for his children. Not so expensive as to spoil the child. But enough to convince this doubting father.

‘Oh, just travelling,’ she explained as they strolled. ‘But now I’m heading for home. For no particular reason. Just that there comes a time.’

‘Yep. We’re on our way back, too. Because we gotta,’ said Barry Flegg. ‘Back to the sticks! It’ll be good,’ he said, and then: ‘I suppose.’

For a moment he paused to settle a children’s argument. A little boy and a little girl were threatening to gouge out each other’s eyes.

‘Well, Anthea,’ he said, ‘did you find what you were expecting?’

She hesitated. It was too long since she had been asked such a direct, not to say indiscreet, question. Then she raised her head, and smiled, with that approach to a dimple which she never succeeded in bringing off.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I have everything. I am very happy.’

They continued walking.

‘Are you content?’ she asked, because it was her turn.