‘Then I can indeed advise you. Ever since the end of the old smuggling days we have had the honour to wait upon the Canon’s family.’

He brought out the archaic phrase with no diminution of his dignity.

‘This,’ he said, taking up a decanter of a pale, almost straw-coloured liquid, ‘is Canon Thorby’s favourite. Are you sure that you would not like to make its acquaintance?’

‘Thank you. Quite sure.’

Regretfully, he closed the cupboard.

‘Walwyk is a most picturesque village, I understand. It sounds strange, perhaps, to have lived so near for so long and never seen it. But it’s not the road to anywhere, and so . . .’ He spread his hands in a gesture that finished the sentence.

‘It’s very pretty. And part of its charm perhaps depends upon it not being on a road to anywhere.’

‘You have lived there long?’

‘Only since the beginning of the term.’

Mentally, he snapped his fingers. Of course, Mrs Westleton’s successor. School-teacher – and, poor dear, how in the world could she keep the modern young in order? – old maid, and like the rest of them, dazzled by the Canon, spending her hard-earned money on the ‘best’ sherry; for him. How very pathetic!

Two very different emotions dictated Mr Freeman’s next action. One was a feeling of competition, hardly conscious; he was slightly older than the Canon, but dash it, he was well preserved and could be just as charming he was sure. The other feeling – and it was conscious – was of pity; he immediately forgave Miss Mayfield her dowdiness, attributing it to poor pay and the preference which everybody showed for drably dressed school-teachers. Mentally, he reclothed her in the softly folded chiffon, the becoming flowered hat of his own ‘best’ period. She would be charming.

Aloud he said, after a glance at his watch:

‘Since you don’t drink sherry, perhaps you would like some coffee. Absolutely no trouble at all; they make it next door . . .’ He opened another door, towards the rear of the premises; and spoke to someone invisible, telling them to pop next door and bring coffee for two, ‘in a pot, mind, none of their sloppy cups. And a plate of macaroons.’

‘So you live in Walwyk,’ he said, resuming his seat and the thread of the conversation. He then mentioned Mr Frisby, and Miss Mayfield thought this was the moment to mention her mild little joke about the ‘Frisbian’ cattle. Laughing heartily Mr Freeman rose again to take in, from a huge bare-armed man in a green apron, the tray from the cafe next door.