His voice was calm, but he knew with some shame that Flavia wouldn’t miss the clear note of insincerity. “Flavia, I’m sorry. I’m sure I’ve been thoughtless and unintentionally unkind. I had no idea you felt like this.”

“I’m not asking for pity. Spare me that. I’m not even asking for love. You haven’t got it to give. I’m asking for justice. I want marriage. The status of being a wife, the hope of children. I’m thirty-six. I don’t want to work until I retire. And what then? Using my retirement lump sum to buy a cottage in the country, hoping the villagers will accept me? Or a one-bedded flat in London when I’ll never be able to afford a decent address? I have no siblings. I’ve neglected friends to be with you, to be available when you have time for me.”

He said, “I never asked you to sacrifice your life for me. That is, if you say it’s a sacrifice.”

But now she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “In eight years we’ve never had a holiday together, in this country or abroad. How often have we been to a show, a film, dined in a restaurant except one where there’ll be no risk of meeting someone you know? I want these ordinary companionable things that other people enjoy.”

He said again, and with some sincerity, “I’m sorry. Obviously I’ve been selfish and unthinking. I think in time you’ll be able to look back on these eight years more positively. And it isn’t too late. You’re very attractive and you’re still young. It’s sensible to recognise when a stage of life has come to an end, when it’s time to move on.”

And now, even in the darkness, he thought he could see her contempt. “You mean to throw me over?”

“Not that. To move on. Isn’t that what you’ve been saying, what this talk is all about?”

“And you won’t marry me? You won’t change your mind?”

“No, Flavia, I won’t change my mind.”

She said, “It’s the Manor, isn’t it? It isn’t another woman who’s come between us, it’s this house. You’ve never made love to me here, ever, have you? You don’t want me here. Not permanently. Not as your wife.”

“Flavia, that’s ridiculous. I’m not looking for a chatelaine.”

“If you lived in London, in the Barbican flat, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We could be happy there. But here at the Manor I don’t belong, I can see it in your eyes. Everything about this place is against me. And don’t think that the people here don’t know that we’re lovers—Helena, Lettie, the Bostocks, even Mog. They’re probably wondering when you’re going to chuck me. And if you do, I’ll have to endure the humiliation of their pity. I’m asking you again, will you marry me?”

“No, Flavia. I’m sorry, but I won’t. We wouldn’t be happy, and I’m not going to risk a second failure. You have to accept that this is the end.”