‘We’ve only been back a week and I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Mayfield.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘You know how it is – you’re the absolute reverse of all I imagined. Tackling those dreadful dogs . . .’ Her gaze, shrewd but kindly, ran over Miss Mayfield’s face and figure assessingly. ‘I was about to have a cup of tea,’ she went on. ‘I like mine early. Do stay and drink a cup with me. Barbara – that’s my daughter – has gone to play tennis and I always find my own company conducive to melancholy. You live alone, don’t you? How do you get on?’

Miss Mayfield opened her mouth to say, But I have never lived alone, and then remembered that, at least since last April, she had done so. In the house next door.

‘I manage,’ she said. ‘But, of course, during term I’m out all day.’

‘Yes, and I daresay that when you get home, the peace and quiet is welcome. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look a bit like a schoolmistress, either.’

‘That is supposed to be a compliment,’ said Miss Mayfield, smiling.

An elderly woman entered, bearing a tea-tray which she set on a low, elaborately carved table of Oriental origin, between the chairs. Mrs Grieve glanced at the tray.

‘Two cups. Clever Carrie! Oh, and Carrie, would you take that little jug and put some, milk in it and put it on the hall table? There, now. How do you like your tea, Miss Mayfield? Now, tell me, what do you think of Walwyk?’

‘I think it’s very pretty.’