Suddenly his voice was harsh. “Pity? I don’t feel pity. She killed my patient. I did a good job on that scar.”

She looked at him, then turned away, but he had caught in that fleeting glance something uncomfortably close to a mixture of surprise and amused understanding.

She said, “The last private patient here at the Manor. Well, she was that all right. She was private. What did any of us know about her? What did you?”

He said quietly, “Only that she wanted a scar removed because she no longer had need of it.”

They began slowly pacing side by side down the lime avenue. The buds were open, and the trees still showed the first transitory green of spring. Chandler-Powell said, “The plans for the restaurant—of course everything depends on your being willing to stay on.”

“You’ll need someone to take charge—administrator, general organiser, housekeeper, secretary. Essentially the job won’t greatly change. I could certainly stay on until you find the right person.”

They walked on in silence. Then, without stopping, he said, “I was thinking of something more permanent—more demanding, I suppose. You may say less attractive, at least for you. For me, it’s been something too important to risk disappointment. That’s why I haven’t spoken before. I’m asking you to marry me. I believe we could be happy together.”

“You haven’t spoken the word ‘love’—that’s honest of you.”

“I suppose it’s because I’ve never really understood what it means. I thought I was in love with Selina when I married her. It was a kind of madness. I like you. I respect and admire you. We’ve worked together now for six years. I want to make love to you, but then any heterosexual man would feel that. I’m never bored or irritated when we’re together, we share the same passion for the house, and when I return here and you’re not about I feel an unease which is difficult to explain. It’s a sense that there’s something lacking, something missing.”

“In the house?”

“No, in myself.” Again there was silence. Then he asked, “Can you call that love? Is it enough? It is for me, is it for you? Do you want time to think about it?”

And now she turned to him. “Asking for time would be play-acting. It is enough.”

He didn’t touch her. He felt like a man invigorated but one who was standing on delicate ground. He mustn’t be gauche. She would despise him if he did the obvious thing, the thing he wanted to do, to take her into his arms. They stood facing each other. Then he said quietly, “Thank you.”

They had reached the stones now. She said, “When I was a child, we used to pace round the circle and gently kick each stone. It was for luck.”