“He likes the money, too.”

“So do you, Robin, so don’t be censorious.”

Keeping his eyes on his plate, he said, “I’m thinking of visiting the Manor while you’re in residence. I thought you’d welcome a gossip. Convalescence is madly boring.”

“No, Robin, I won’t welcome a gossip. I booked into the Manor specifically to ensure I’ll be left alone. I imagine the staff there will see to it that I’m undisturbed. Isn’t that the whole purpose of the place?”

“That’s rather grudging of you, considering I recommended the Manor to you. Would you be going there if it weren’t for me?”

“As you’re not a doctor and have never had cosmetic surgery, I’m not sure what your recommendation would be worth. You have mentioned the Manor occasionally, but that’s all. I had already heard of George Chandler-Powell. As he’s recognised as one of the six best plastic surgeons in England, probably in Europe, and cosmetic surgery is becoming as fashionable as health farms, that’s hardly surprising. I looked him up, compared his record, took expert advice and chose him. But you haven’t told me what your connection is with Cheverell Manor. I’d better know in case I mention casually that I know you and am met with stony stares and relegation to the worst bedroom.”

“That could happen. I’m not exactly their favourite visitor. I don’t actually stay in the house—that would be going a bit far for both parties. They’ve got a cottage for visitors, Rose Cottage, and I book in there. I have to pay, too, which I think is a bit much. They don’t even send over the food. I don’t usually get a vacancy in summer but they can hardly claim the cottage isn’t free in December.”

“You said you were some kind of relation.”

“Not of Chandler-Powell. His surgical assistant, Marcus Westhall, is my cousin. He assists with the operations and looks after the patients when the great George is in London. Marcus lives there with his sister, Candace, in the other cottage. She helps in the office. I’m their only living relation. You’d have thought that that would mean something to them.”

“And it doesn’t?”

“I’d better tell you some family history, if it won’t bore you. It goes back a long way. I’ll try to make it brief. It’s about money, of course.”

“It usually is.”

“It’s a sad, sad story about a poor orphan boy who’s thrown penniless on the world. It’s a pity to wrench your heart with it now. I wouldn’t like salt tears to fall into your delicious dressed crab.”

“I’ll take the risk. It’s as well to know something about the place before I go.”

“I wondered what lay behind this invitation to lunch. If you want to go prepared, you’ve come to the right person. Well worth the cost of a good meal.”

He spoke without rancour but his smile was amused. She reminded herself that it was never prudent to underestimate him. He had never before spoken to her about his family history or his past. For a man so ready to communicate the minutiae of his daily existence, his small triumphs and more common failures in love and business, recounted usually with humour, he was remarkably unforthcoming about his early life. Rhoda suspected that his childhood might have been deeply unhappy and that this early trauma, from which no one totally recovers, could be at the root of his insecurity. Since she had no intention of responding to confidences with a reciprocal candour, his was a life she had had no compulsion to explore. But there were things about Cheverell Manor which it would be useful to know in advance. She would come to the Manor as a patient and, for her, this implied vulnerability and a certain physical and emotional subservience. To arrive unbriefed was to put oneself at a disadvantage from the start.