‘I know you mean well. That afternoon I was silly and hysterical and said a lot of things I didn’t really mean. All about moving, and so on. And then, with Sydney ill, everybody was so kind and helpful, I realized where I was well off. It’d be silly to move. Sydney can stay here and do like Juliet Reeve is doing, if he’s clever enough. I’m sorry you took so much trouble and I’m sorry to seem so ungrateful . . .’

‘That doesn’t matter in the least; I took no trouble at all. And, of course, it is for you to decide. Look, I’ll leave the papers with you; you might . . .’ She stood up, and Mrs Baines rose hurriedly and went with her to the door. There, in the bright light, Miss Mayfield noticed again how very unwell the other woman looked.

‘You don’t look at all well, Mrs Baines,’ she said gently. ‘I’m afraid the strain has told on you.’

‘You should never say that kind of thing; it makes people feel sorry for themselves.’ She softened this remark by giving a glimmer of a smile, quickly quenched. ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

They exchanged good evenings, and Miss Mayfield walked towards the gate, at which, just before she reached it, Sydney appeared, holding a handleless basket, covered by a piece of sacking, clutched against his stomach and a bundle of cow parsley under one arm. Thus burdened, he fumbled at the latch of the gate, and Miss Mayfield hurried forward and opened it for him.

‘Hullo, Miss,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Look what I’ve got. Ethel just gave it to me.’

He nipped the bundle of greenstuff closer to his side and pulled loose the corner of the piece of sacking. Miss Mayfield caught a glimpse of a rabbit, a young one, prettily marked with black and white, crouched in the basket, its eyes bulging with fear. Before she could say ‘How pretty’, it had leaped, landed with a soft plop and was away among the gooseberry bushes.