But he was already fetching his jacket. Returning and putting it on, he patted the pocket for his keys. He said, “We’ll talk outside. I suspect that the discussion will be disagreeable and I’d prefer a disagreeable conversation to take place outside this room. You’d better get a coat. I’ll see you at the door.”

There was no need to specify which door. Only that on the ground floor of the west wing led directly to the terrace and to the lime walk. She was waiting for him, coated and with a woollen scarf tied over her head. The door was locked but unbolted, and he locked it behind them. They walked for a minute in silence which Chandler-Powell had no intention of breaking. Still annoyed at the loss of his evening, he was disinclined to be helpful. Flavia had asked for this meeting. If she had anything to say, let her say it.

It wasn’t until they had reached the end of the lime walk, and after a few seconds of indecision had turned back, that she stopped walking and faced him. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but her body was rigid and there was a harshness and a resolution in her voice that he had never heard before.

“We can’t go on as we are. We have to make a decision. I’m asking you to marry me.”

So it had come, the moment he had dreaded. But it was meant to be his decision, not hers. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it coming, then realised that the demand, even in its brutal explicitness, wasn’t totally unexpected. He had chosen to ignore the hints, the moodiness, the sense of a grievance unexpressed amounting almost to rancour. He said calmly, “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Flavia.”

“Of course it’s possible. You’re divorced, I’m single.”

“I mean that it wasn’t something I’ve ever considered. From the beginning our relationship was never on that footing.”

“What footing exactly did you think it was on? I’m speaking of when we first became lovers—eight years ago, in case you’ve forgotten. On what footing was it then?”

“I suppose sexual attraction, respect, affection. I know I felt all those things. I never said I loved you. I never mentioned marriage. I wasn’t looking for marriage. One failure is enough.”

“No, you were always honest—honest or careful. And you couldn’t even give me fidelity, could you? An attractive man, a distinguished surgeon, divorced, eligible. Do you think I don’t know how often you’ve relied on me—on my ruthlessness, if you like—to get rid of those avaricious little gold-diggers who were trying to get their claws into you? And I’m not talking about a casual affair. For me it was never that. I’m talking about eight years of commitment. Tell me—when we’re apart, do I ever enter your mind? Do you ever picture me except gowned and masked in the theatre, anticipating your every need, knowing what you like and what you don’t like, what music you want played while you work, available when wanted, discreetly on the margin of your life? Not so very different from being in bed, is it? But at least in the operating theatre there was no easy substitute.”