It does not take Harriet long to reach Mayfair. She has taken a taxicab to Ralph’s home, rather than going directly into the offices of the Gazette. Mr Pickford won’t mind her absence, and she needs to speak with her fiancé about Peter Lazenby. Jimmy’s comments have troubled her. She brooded over them for much of Tuesday, and then slept badly, restlessly, trying to recall the conversation with Peter at the Savoy. She drank too much that evening and her memory is patchy.

If Peter Lazenby is as deplorable as Jimmy has made him out to be, then Ralph ought to hear of it. His career may suffer if he is known to be associating with such a man.

She presses the doorbell and waits for Ralph’s butler to answer.

The house is a fine edifice, with an immaculate white frontage, a shining black door underneath a colonnaded porch and black railings that have not a speck of dirt or soot on them. Solid, respectable, polished and elegant. She breathes deeply, contentedly. She likes what she sees.

The door opens and Ralph’s man, who is not usually perturbed by life, is startled to see her on the doorstep.

‘Miss Littlemore – we were not expecting you.’

‘No, of course not. I sent no word. But I should like to see Mr Christie.’ She waits for him to open the door and let her in, but he makes a small bow and tells her that he will enquire whether Mr Christie is receiving visitors – then he closes the door.

His behaviour is irregular, if not downright rude. She might reasonably expect to be allowed across the threshold of a house which, in a few months, will be her own.

After a minute or two, the door is flung open and Ralph, pulling on his coat, barks an instruction to his servant before closing the door behind himself.

‘Darling! This is an unexpected delight. What brings you to this part of town so early?’

Harriet glances at her wristwatch. ‘Is ten o’clock very early, Ralph?’

‘It is for me,’ he laughs, slipping her arm through his. ‘Let’s walk, shall we? It’s a beautiful day. How about we find a café? Breakfast?’

‘If you like.’ She glances up at the heavy grey clouds overhead and admires his light-heartedness. ‘But I’ve already eaten breakfast. A pot of tea would be lovely, perhaps.’

He walks quickly away from the house, half-pulling her along the pavement so that she has to trot to keep up. ‘Are you going in later?’ she asks. ‘To the House of Commons, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps. Here we are, this one will do.’

He stops outside a drab sort of place. It has dusty windows and there are no curtains. Harriet might have preferred somewhere that was decked with pretty tablecloths and flower vases, but Ralph ushers her through the door and asks for a table.