When he was only about fifty yards behind her, he called out, ‘Hélène! Hélène! Wait! Wait for me!’

At first he thought she was ignoring him, or that she couldn’t hear him for some reason, but after a moment or two she looked back over her shoulder and paused, still edging along the path like an animal about to take flight. He slowed his steps and, speaking more quietly, said, ‘Hélène, don’t run away, it’s me, Rupert.’

It was the first time he had used her unadorned Christian name, the first time he had named himself to her. Carefully, as if approaching a spooked horse, he walked towards her, his hands at his side, unthreatening.

‘Hélène, don’t run, it’s only me. I thought we could walk together, if you would care to?’

The girl didn’t move, but as he came up beside her and he could see her face, Rupert realised that she had been crying. Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

‘What is it?’ he whispered as he saw another tear course down her cheek. ‘What is it, my darling girl? Why are you crying? What can I do to help?’

Hélène shook her head wordlessly, and so Rupert simply pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her to wipe her eyes.

‘My dearest girl,’ he began again, ‘what is the matter? Why are you so distressed? Who has upset you?’ He held out his hand to her, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it and he led her to a grassy knoll beside the hedge where they would not be easily seen. Taking her heavy cloak from her shoulders, he spread it on the ground and gently eased her down to sit upon it. Not wanting to tower over her, he sat down beside her.

‘Now tell me,’ he said gently.

For a moment Hélène seemed unable to form words, her throat constricted with the effort of controlling her tears, and then she managed, ‘The baby is dead.’

Rupert stared at her. ‘The baby? What baby?’