The relief must have been plain on my face. He smiled. “Not every gift is wrapped and under the tree.”

The next few days passed in a nostalgic blur. Each morning we collected the post, which I sorted and reviewed and delivered to the desk of the intended recipient. If there were slips, they became my morning’s work.

When Mr. Sweatman returned, he spent a few minutes pacing the room and casting his eye over the sorting table and the smaller desks. “It may look as if Cushing and Pope have just stepped out for lunch, but I am reliably informed that by mutual agreement they will not be returning,” he said at last. “Murray calculated their contribution in the negative and suggested they pursue careers in banking. Jolly good advice, Pope said, and they all shook hands.”

Their places at the sorting table were strewn with papers and books.

“I’ll tidy up then, shall I?” I opened the covers of one or two books to identify their owners.

“An excellent idea,” said Mr. Sweatman. “And when it’s cleared, it should suit Mr. Dankworth perfectly, don’t you think?”

I looked at him. “Do you think he’ll prefer it?”

“It was always Murray’s intention that Dankworth sit with the rest of us, but Cushing and Pope needed supervision and there wasn’t the room. I have no doubt your peace will be restored before we’ve all acquired the habit of writing 1908 instead of 1907.”

My peace was not restored. Mr. Dankworth said that he had established ways of working that would be disturbed if he moved to the sorting table. Of course, I thought. It would be far harder to review my corrections if he moved.

Mr. Sweatman made the suggestion regularly, but Mr. Dankworth was consistent in his reply that he was comfortable with the current arrangement, thank you very much, curt nod.

As the days lengthened towards spring, my mood lightened. I looked forward to errands outside the Scriptorium and I wore a triangular path between Sunnyside, the Press and the Bodleian Library.

I was taking books from the basket by the door and putting them in the crate attached to the back of the bicycle when Dr. Murray came up to me.

“Corrected proofs for Mr. Hart, and the slips for romanity.” He handed me three pages with editing marks all over them and a small bundle of slips, ordered and numbered and tied with string. As I was putting them in my satchel, one of the corrections caught my eye. It would have to wait. I walked my bicycle out onto the Banbury Road and headed towards Little Clarendon Street.