Her mother said, “It’s never too late to find someone to love. You’re a handsome woman, Rhoda, you should do something about that scar.”

Words she had never expected to hear. Words which no one since Miss Farrell had dared to speak. She remembered little of what happened afterwards, only her own reply, spoken quietly and without emphasis.

“I shall get rid of it.”

She must have dozed fitfully. Now she woke into full consciousness with a start to find that the rain had passed. Darkness had fallen. Glancing at the dashboard, she saw that it was four-fifty-five. She had been on the road for nearly three hours. In the unexpected quiet, the noise of the engine as she bumped cautiously from the verge jarred the silent air. The rest of the journey was easy. The turns of the road came where they should and her headlights on the signposts lit up reassuring names. Sooner than expected she saw the name Stoke Cheverell and turned right for the final mile. The village street was deserted, lights shone behind drawn curtains and only the corner shop with its bright crowded window, through which two or three late shoppers could be dimly seen, showed signs of life. And now there was the sign she was looking for, Cheverell Manor. The great iron gates stood open. She was expected. She drove down the short avenue which widened into a half-circle, and the house was before her.

There had been a picture of Cheverell Manor in the brochure handed to her after her first consultation, but it was only a palecoloured similitude of the reality. In her headlights she saw the outline of the house, seeming larger than she had expected, a dark mass against the darker sky. It stretched each side of a large central gable with two windows above. These showed a pale light, but most were blank except for four large mullioned windows to the left of the door, which were brightly lit. As she drove carefully and parked under the trees, the door opened and a strong light streamed out over the gravel.

Switching off the engine, she got out and opened the back door for her overnight case, the cold damp air a welcome release after the drive. A male figure appeared in the doorway and moved towards her. Although the rain had stopped, he was wearing a plastic mackintosh with a hood that reached over his head like a baby’s bonnet, giving him the look of a malevolent child. He walked firmly and his voice was strong, but she could see that he was no longer young. He took the case firmly from her and said, “If you give me the key, madam, I’ll park the car for you. Miss Cressett doesn’t like to see cars parked outside. They’re expecting you.”

She handed over the key and followed him into the house. The unease, the slight sense of disorientation she had felt sitting alone in the storm, was still with her. Drained of emotion, she felt only a mild relief at having arrived and, as she passed into the wide hall with its central staircase, she was aware of a need to be again solitary, relieved of the necessity of shaking hands, of a formal welcome, when all she wanted was the silence of her own home and, later, the familiar comfort of her bed.