‘Well, you’ve had a good sleep, which always helps.’ He came and stood by the sofa. ‘I’ve been holding back dinner, hoping that you would dine with me. It would give us an opportunity to have a little talk – if you feel up to it, of course. But perhaps you would rather go home.’

‘Oh no. There’s a great deal I want to hear . . . and to say. I’m afraid I’m rather untidy, though.’

‘Knowing women,’ he said lightly, ‘I imagined that would be among your first thoughts, so I sent to your house, and Berta Creek found a dress and some shoes and stockings. They’re in the bathroom, first on the left at the top of the stairs. Shall I tell Reeve about ten minutes?’

In the luxurious bathroom she washed, donned the clean dress, took out what few pins remained in her hair and combed it and pinned it up again. The place on her cheek was so swollen that she looked lop-sided, the violent crying and then the long sleep had puffed her eyelids, a bruise she had not known was there was turning blue on her forehead. But it doesn’t in the least matter what I look like, she thought, turning away from the glass.

Canon Thorby was waiting and took her into the dining room, where the table was laid with two places.

‘Isabel is away at the moment,’ he explained. He went on in a conversational voice. ‘You’ll be interested to know that the dog was Lassie. Poor Mr Frisby is very much upset. The sheep were Maverick’s, and he is also upset, and angry as well. But, of course, Mr Frisby will pay for the mauled sheep. I feel very strongly that somebody should present you with a new dress. . . . All right, Reeve, back to the Third Programme; we can manage now.’

As soon as they were alone he went on, in a different, more conspiratorial voice:

‘I couldn’t think how to account for your state, so I thought as much of the truth as was possible was the best thing. I credited you with a recklessly heroic attempt to save the sheep. I suppose it is just possible, in the morning quiet, for some sound of commotion to have reached you, at the rear of your house?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I intend to tell the whole truth.’

Canon Thorby put down his soup spoon, very gently.

‘I am to understand by that that you intend to make public all the wild surmises and theories which you expounded to me this morning?’

‘Yes. What else can I do?’

‘Well, you must, of course, do as you think fit. I hope you have considered the consequences. It is a story out of which the gutter press will make great capital, and your mental stability will certainly be questioned. You are prepared for that?’

She nodded. He took up his spoon and resumed eating.