But she carried on. ‘People like… Rothko.’ She knew very little about the artist aside from an exhibition brochure Miss Gardiner, who went down to London for the shows, had lent her. But it was new and strange and the opposite of the English landscapes and religious oils she had grown up on.

‘Yeah, I know him. Big blocks of colour. Kinda strange.’ Verity cast him a suspicious glance. ‘No need to look surprised. I lived in New York before I came out here.’

‘Did you?’ This seemed improbable too but then she was starting to feel blindsided in her assumptions. ‘Did you see them?’ she asked.

‘Oh no. I was kinda busy. New York’s a wild kind of place. And I prefer photography anyway.’ She flushed and fell away from him, suddenly aware of a tang of something unknown, sensual and alarming. Although he could have meant anything by it, she was sure he was determined to make a fool of her with his insinuations of a worldly life far away from Norfolk. And it was probably a lie about New York and the artists.

‘Do you?’ she said. ‘What kind of photographs?’

He appeared to think. ‘I like your mother’s,’ he said. ‘You know, Miss Frost, despite what I said to your father, I don’t really care about old English houses.’ He was standing rather close to her and she was glad of the dim light because her face was burning. She wished he would stop. ‘I think English people are funny, though. I think it’s the way most of them never say what they really think but spend a lot of time pretending to be so proper about everything.’

‘I see.’ Was he mocking her? It was hard to tell. He probably thought she was stuck up and pretentious. She had made a fool of herself staring at him like that downstairs. ‘Well, it was very nice to see you again, Mr Doherty, but I must get back to my books. Can you find your own way down?’ Her voice was high and too loud. She turned awkwardly and took the few steps needed to get to her bedroom without looking back.

But when she opened the door he was standing next to her. He put his hand on the door.

‘I’m only teasing you. I’m not really such an ass.’ Even in the dull light of the landing she could see the whites of his eyes.

‘You mean you just can’t help being one,’ she said, her tone horribly prim and hard. Good grief, he was so provoking.

‘Well, I guess I deserved that.’ He paused, seeming to consider something. ‘I really did live in New York City. It’s not a lie.’

She blushed. ‘I never said it was,’ she said, in a voice of hurt. ‘Now I would appreciate it if you could let me get into my room, Mr Doherty.’