‘Yes, I see,’ said her father. ‘It’s eighteenth century, quite old. But then I suppose everything must seem old to your lot. I would give you a tour myself but I must speak with Peter. Verity, please show Mr Doherty the house.’

‘Me?’ But it was no use complaining; she had no reasonable excuse. And perhaps this was her chance to see him off.

‘Father, I can show Jack the house.’ The colour had risen in Peter’s face.

Realising that he desperately didn’t want her anywhere near his precious Jack, she said, quite casually, ‘Oh all right then, if I must.’

He followed her around the hushed and half-lit house, hardly a step behind her, admiring everything in a drawling voice that always seemed amused. The house was dark and gloomy and somehow tired. It was like a mausoleum, without Mother there. On the hallway stairs, he stopped in front of a framed photograph of her and Peter dressed up as Arabians in silk cloths. She winced.

‘Mother took that. It was one of her things. Dressing us up, posing. I loathed it.’

He smiled. ‘I love it,’ he said, his fingertips touching the frame. ‘I think I’d have got on well with your mother.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she said in a withering tone but it sounded silly. It was true, what he’d said. Her mother, before her descent into – whatever it was – had been interested in people. Or at least she had appeared to be and had made everyone feel as if they were interesting. At parties, she would stand with a glass in her hand and cock her head to one side with wide eyes as if whatever dull nonsense the person was spouting was fascinating. Her mother would have been besotted by this odd American boy and he with her, and it made Verity feel strangely left out.

On the upstairs landing, they stood in front of some watery Norfolk landscapes.

‘They’re Cotman. Norwich school. Mother inherited them. Do you like them?’

‘I—’

‘I don’t. Not any more. I’m fed up with old things. Sick of them. I’m supposed to be studying History, did you know that? But you know what’s funny? I can’t stand history. I hate it all. All the old stuff. I think I only chose it because of one of the mistresses at my school.’

‘What do you like?’

Although she kept her eyes on the paintings, she was aware that he was looking at her. No one had ever asked her that. She had been angrily ranting and now he had wrong-footed her. She had to think quickly. ‘I actually rather like the Americans, Mr Doherty, painters I mean—’

‘Call me Jack,’ he said.