She could see that he looked exhausted; the uniform high colour of his face had given way to a mottled crimson and grey, and all the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered about me at the end of such a day,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’m used to making my own way about. Do sit down. Would you . . . may I make you a cup of tea?’

‘The universal panacea! We seem to have been sustaining ourselves all day on cups of tea – some so strong you could stand on them. No, if you really wish to offer me a reviving drink, Miss Mayfield, offer me a brandy and soda.’

She gave him a look of dismay.

‘But, Canon Thorby, I haven’t such a thing in the house.’

He had sat back in the low comfortable chair, but now straightened himself abruptly.

‘I gave orders. Don’t tell me something else has gone amiss! Not knowing your tastes, but going on Mrs Westleton’s, I ordered sweet sherry and Madeira, and for myself, anticipating an occasional evening call, brandy and soda. In the cellarette of your sideboard.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t looked. I will now.’

She hurried into the little dining room and opened one of the cupboards in the serpentine-fronted sideboard. He was right. Some bottles and syphons stood at the bottom, and on a shelf above was a bewildering array of glasses. In the faraway past, she had seen her father, after a specially heavy day, drink whisky from a tumbler. Was brandy the same? Oh dear, Rose would have known! Anyway, soda fizzed and splashed about – even she knew that – so a tumbler seemed to be the thing.

‘Am I to drink alone?’ Canon Thorby asked as she set the tray down.

‘I . . . I never take alcohol. It isn’t prejudice or anything like that. I just don’t.’

He said mildly, ‘It’s never too late to acquire a pleasant habit, you know. It used to give me pleasure to see that Mrs Westleton was provided with just a little more than bare necessities.’

‘You’ve already provided so much. This beautiful home. And the larder stocked. Even my lunch was prepared. You’ve been far, far too generous.’

‘Nonsense. Did you imagine that we should allow you to arrive at lunchtime and begin to scramble eggs? That is a thing about which you must be very careful; ladies living alone, I understand, tend to have makeshift meals. Mrs Westleton, of course, had her husband to think of and, poor fellow, he did enjoy his food. I told Berta that every Saturday and Sunday she was to see that you had a good substantial lunch; and on other days she is to leave you something that can be heated – or otherwise prepared with the very minimum of bother.’