‘Miss Gaydon, you need not be “mindful of every word” with me, I promise you.’ He paused, and let that sink in. ‘I am not considered to be unobservant. These last few days you have not been happy, happy with yourself. With the benefit, alas, of rather more years than you number, might I be permitted to say that being at odds with oneself is a very unprofitable thing. Whatever the cause, turn the page of life, and be once again yourself.’ He did not ask why she was unhappy, did not suggest it was an affair of the heart. That would be to press too closely.

‘I … thank you, Mr Newbold. I take your advice seriously, though I am not yet sure that I can act upon it.’

‘“The Slough of Despond” is, I feel, much overrated, as is Milton’s poetry, in my personal view, and lingering in it is a waste of life. We cannot turn back the clock and undo what is done, so better to step forward and do new things better.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I fear, ma’am, I sound as if I require a pulpit.’

‘No, Mr Newbold, what you say is very true, but one needs a certain amount of strength to extract oneself from the “slough”, and just at present I do not think I possess enough.’

‘Then lean upon my arm, Miss Gaydon, and take strength from me.’ His voice dropped a little. ‘I offer you whatever support I may humbly provide, in whatever form you require it.’ He offered the arm, but it was obvious to Henrietta that he meant more. She laid her hand upon the arm, and looked at him, rather shyly.

‘Thank you, Mr Newbold. Thank you, truly.’

It was, he thought, definitely a good start.