He was older than she had expected, in his forties at least. Average height, dressed in a black suit and highly polished shoes. Closing the car door, he glanced up at the house. His face was round, his hairline receding, but his well-clipped moustache lent some style.

‘Hello, George Buthlay,’ Marion said to herself

She heard the doorbell ring and went downstairs to meet him.

Maggie was standing at the front door, introducing herself. ‘How lovely to meet you, Major Buthlay. I’m Robert’s wife.’

‘Mrs Crawford, thank you so much for inviting me. I have been so looking forward to meeting you.’

‘It’s our pleasure. Please, call me Maggie. Come on in.’

Marion watched from the last step of the stairs. Her mother’s effort to charm was mortifying.

She stepped down into the hall and introduced herself.

‘Good evening, Major Buthlay. How nice to meet you. I’m Marion.’

‘Yes,’ fluttered Maggie. ‘Marion’s my daughter by my first husband.’

‘Good evening, Marion.’ He took her hand and held it briefly to his lips.

Maggie’s eyes widened in delight.

Robert ambled in from the sitting room. ‘George, how good to see you. Come in to the warm.’

‘Oh yes, do come through.’ Maggie stepped back to let Major Buthlay in and then winked at her daughter before closing the front door.

In the sitting room, the two men had taken up the armchairs, leaving the sofa free for Maggie and Marion. Marion was relieved; the last thing she wanted was to have to sit on the sofa with Major Buthlay when her mother was on a mission to throw her at him.

Robert poured two whiskies and two sherries, and Major Buthlay commented on Maggie’s knickknacks and taste in décor. After that, Maggie and Marion withdrew to the kitchen to finish off the gravy and boil the veg.

‘What a charming man,’ Maggie whispered as she drained the carrots.

‘He seems polite enough,’ Marion replied, with no noticeable excitement – but her hand was tingling a little from his lips. No one had ever done anything so courtly before and it had rather disarmed her. She tried to distract herself. ‘Did you put the horseradish sauce on the table?’

‘Yes, and the mustard.’ Maggie lowered her voice. ‘Doesn’t he have lovely manners? And so good-looking. A man like him, a major, would suit you very well.’

Marion glared at Maggie. ‘Mother! Stop!’ she hissed. ‘I can find my own husband, thank you. I don’t need Dad’s friends to be paraded in front of me in the hope that one of them will take me off the shelf.’

‘There is a man friend in London, isn’t there? You know you can tell me anything.’

Marion gave her a glare.

‘How did I get such an obstinate daughter?’ Maggie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Put those roast tatties in the warm dish, would you, and call your dad in to carry the beef.’

Marion, seated opposite Major Buthlay, observed him covertly. She listened carefully, spoke when she was required and weighed him up. His eyes were dark and amusing, lively. His lips well-shaped, neither too plump nor too thin. He held himself well and listened attentively to her mother’s rambling stories. His hands were nice. She thought of the warmth and dryness of his fingers when he had taken hers. Of course, he was shorter than her, but as her mother had always told her, she was too tall for any decent man.